


A Broken Soldier

by AvoidingAverage



Series: Canon-Based AUs [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesiac Steve Rogers, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, M/M, Memory Loss, No Beta, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Past Relationship(s), Protective Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Steve Rogers is a little shit, Steve doesn't remember Bucky, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, We Die Like Men, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-05-31 13:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19426681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: "Steve Rogers went into the ice a grieving man, tasting Bucky’s name on his lips and Peggy’s sorrow in his ears.He emerged a blank slate."Steve Rogers wakes up in a world full of aliens, men of iron, and a past complicated by the heroism of a man he no longer remembers being.  He has no interest remembering the pain that drove him into the ice without the parachute that might have saved him.  No desire to know about the best friend he lost or the woman who moved on without him.He has more important things to consider...like killing the Winter Soldier.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm back on my bullshit again. I swore I wasn't going to start up another fic for a while--or at least until the Stucky BB was over--but here I am jumping on the angst train once more. 
> 
> Hopefully you'll enjoy this retelling of the Winter Soldier where Bucky Barnes remembers who he was, but Steve Rogers does not.

The Winter Soldier had a secret, one he was willing to die to protect. 

One he _had_ killed to protect. 

The secret was simple: he was malfunctioning. Had been for a while. 

What started as brief lapses in his training and control had turned into extended periods of clarity. Where memories slowly flooded in to smother the scent of blood and gunpowder disguised as a call for world peace. 

The first time it happened, he was walking through a crowd, trailing his target, and had been struck silent and stupid by the sight of a young, blonde boy struggling for breath next to what must be his mother. She’d reached for her son with shaking hands and quickly placed her hand on his chest, trying to remind his body what it was like to breath without panic. The Soldier’s mind had immediately surged with a panic that felt foreign after years of calm nothingness and it was all he could do to stop himself from grabbing the boy and rushing to the nearest hospital. 

It wasn’t until the boy looked up and the Soldier was staring into brown--brown, brown was wrong--eyes that he could pick out all the ways the boy wasn’t who he was looking for. His jaw was too soft, hair just a few shades too red, and Stevie had never had the soft features of this child. 

The name rang like a gong in his brain, jarring in its familiarity. 

_Stevestevestevestevestevesteve_

Like one couldn’t exist without the other, his name returns as easily as it had the first time he’d introduced himself to the bloody but triumphant boy.

_I am James Buchanon Barnes._

“Bucky,” he corrected himself quietly. “My name is Bucky.”

He couldn’t even focus long enough to respond to his handler’s sharp order to get moving. The brawny man stepped closer, hand raised threateningly and suddenly all Bucky can think about is the huddle of broad shouldered boys closing in on a flash of blonde hair and fire in bright blue eyes. There’s enough space in the crowded shopping area that he’s in no danger of being struck, but he knew if he hesitated any longer there will be more soldiers, more men streaming in to drag him back into the dark and cold cells. 

Back to the Chair so he can relearn the meaning of suffering.

He stared at the boy for a moment longer, despite his shortening leash. He watched the way his mother smoothed sweaty strands of hair away from his forehead and shushed him when he tries to babble out an apology. It jostled free a name from the edges of his mind and settled something deep within him. Sarah. Sarah Rogers.

Oh god, he promised Sarah he would watch out for Stevie. He told her he’d keep him safe.

He needs to find Steve. 

Another sharp word in his ear made him return to the task at hand. The only way he can find Steve is if he has access to information and there is no better source for information on Steve Rogers than Hydra. There is no doubt that they are the ones responsible for the breaks and fractures in his mind and the heavy weight of the arm at his side. For whatever reason they took him and shaped him into a weapon that would further their insanity.

Bucky tried not to think about what must have happened to Steve that he would let him remain in Hydra’s control for so long.

___________________________________________________

And it has been a long time. A lifetime has passed since the war, if the dates on the newspapers are to be believed. January of 2011 feels as close to him as the fantasy lands described in the books he’d once collected. It’s like he’s been transported into the future with only a trail of spotty memories to link him to his past. They come and go in flashes and he lets them--there are more important things to discover than just how much blood is on his hands.

People are dressed differently, allow their hair to flow long and loose without a hat to cover it, and speak into devices that make him curious. He sneaks one away from a distracted teenager on his way past and tucks it away in an inner pocket for later analysis. It sits oddly against the familiar weight of a hidden gun.

At first, he anticipates fighting his way free from his handlers and the contingent of agents that escort him after his mission, certain that they would sense the way his mind is working for the first time in decades. Bucky is sure that his eyes will flash with the unholy fire that has been growing inside him like a storm with each memory that returns to him. 

To his disappointment--or maybe it’s relief-- none of the men surrounding him seem to notice the changes in him. 

They cuff him with dense metallic cuffs that force his arms to remain still and order him to sit in the back seat of the car then begin to talk amongst themselves. His handler shoots him a few looks, but he just lets his face go slack and lifeless and tells himself to focus on sorting through the maze of emotions and memories that trickle in relentlessly. He spends the ride staring down at the metal arm attached to his shoulder that ripples and shifts like the feathers of a bird.

He tries to track back through the years of being a shell controlled by Hydra, but all his brain seems to want to produce is image after image of Steve. 

Steve laughing at something Dum Dum says under his breath with the firelight reflecting the chiseled planes of his place. Steve sitting with his shoulders bowed as though he carried the weight of the world there. Steve smiling softly, wistfully at Bucky just before they stepped onto the train that would change everything. Steve screaming at him above the roar of the wind and the engine, his hand stretched out in a futile attempt to drag him back to safety. They rattle around his thoughts like a magnet pulling free memories and sensations that he’d believed had been burned out of him for so long. 

Even worse are the tempting glimpses of smooth pale skin gleaming in the lamplight and fingers curling through golden hair.

They take him to a tall, nondescript building at the corner of the town--Harlem, his brain supplies sluggishly--and shuffle him inside quickly. He’s careful to be complacent and move wherever they push him without resistance. One of the guards keeps a hand firmly on the back of his neck to propel him forward while the others are careful to keep their guns steady on him.

It pleases him to think that despite all that they must have done to him, Hydra was still afraid of what he would do if they ever lost control. It tells him that he hasn’t been the silent weapon they’d been training.

Three floors below the plain apartment building facade, Bucky is led into a gleaming medical facility that sits in blatant contrast to the cells he can make out along the corridor. At his arrival, the agents push him over to an examination chair and step back so the doctors and nurses waiting nearby can move closer.

“Any problems?” A lean faced woman with a clipboard asks his handler.

“He froze up for a minute or two in the mall,” the man--his handler, his mind supplies--says with a grunt. “Just kept staring at this kid having an asthma attack.”

The doctor frowns, flicking through her notes before she waves off the complaint. “It’s a common error. We’ve never quite managed to keep him from reacting to little triggers like that.”

Bucky lets them talk about him like he’s some inanimate object and doesn’t protest when one of the nurses grabs his arm and takes his blood pressure. It gives him the opportunity to lean close enough to read the notes the doctor had been looking at.

_Patient: Winter Soldier_

_Recovered 1946 under the supervision of Armin Zola._

Just the name of the beady eyed little scientist is enough to make a cold sweat trickle down his back and his pulse spike enough that the pretty red headed nurse taking his blood pressure frowns at him. He forces himself to stare blankly at the ground until his pulse returns to normal. There would be time to process the complicated wash of emotions threatening to drown him when he wasn’t surrounded by enemies.

Maybe he can grab the files later and find out what other nightmares had come true for him.

“Guess that means the rumors about Captain America are true, huh?” Another soldier says from somewhere over Bucky’s left shoulder. Bucky focuses on keeping his breathing steady and his eyes fixed on the floor. His left arm makes an odd noise that thankfully goes unnoticed.

Bucky’s handler makes a sharp gesture at the man who’d spoken. “Shut up, Derrick. You know you aren’t supposed to speak about him in front of the Soldier. Fucks up his programming.”

Derrick makes a disgruntled noise, clearly unhappy about being called out so openly. “It’s not like it matters,” he complains, “Rogers went down in that plane ages ago. Dead as a doornail.”

________________________________________________

Knowing Steve is dead sits like a stone in his gut.

He wants to rage, to scream at whatever deity decided that Steve Rogers deserved to die after surviving so much. Bucky should have been there. He would have hauled that stupid punk’s giant body out of the cockpit and into a parachute if it was the last thing he did. He would have called Peggy and given her the coordinates to keep him from--from drowning. From slowly losing the feeling in his long, artist’s fingers and crooked toes before the water closed over his head. 

Did he try to escape? Or was he too hurt to pull himself free from the ice and cold? Bucky’s mind was full of image after image of Steve’s final moments and how badly he’d failed him. 

The thought of Steve being alone at the end made him vomit up the protein shake he’d been given before being tossed into his cell. 

Sinking heavily onto the thin cot, Bucky raked his fingers through the tangled length of his hair. It was odd to feel it brush against the back of his neck and he lets the strangeness of it center him against the chaos in his mind. Odds are his cell is heavily monitored as every other movement he’s made here and he can’t risk giving away the fact that his mind and the bastardized version of the serum Zola gave him is slowly piecing together the fragments left behind by the Chair.

If Steve is gone--even the thought makes him swallow hard and his hands shake--then there is nothing left to do but finish what he started. Hydra had to be destroyed.

His position as their ‘Asset’ made it possible for him to do more than just blow up a few buildings and hope it was enough to destroy a few heads. Steve was always the one who wanted to run in with guns blazing and the honesty of an open fight. Peggy, however, had taught Bucky the value of gathering information and using it to shake apart an organization at their foundations. He needed to rip Hydra out by the roots.

That meant running wasn’t an option. Somehow, he had to survive whatever hell was still waiting for him here and wait for an opportunity to strike back. His time in the medical lab and in the transport showed him how easy it could be to go unnoticed among the agents. For all their fear of the Winter Soldier, none of them expected him to be present or aware of what was going on around him. He was merely a bomb waiting to explode.

So he would wait. He would gather the ammunition he could use to drag every rotten piece of Hydra into the light and then, when the time was right, he would avenge Steve Rogers.

___________________________________________________

It was shockingly easy to pass along information on Hydra to interested parties. He even managed to get a few agents killed for negligence in the process. Spying had never been a natural gift for him, but he watched enough of Peggy Carter’s antics to make a decent effort.

No one would ever expect the Fist of Hydra of being a spy. How could he be when his brain was fried every time they woke him out of cryo?

So he sabotages an assassination of an English diplomat and leaves incriminating photos on the desk of an Interpol agent that leads to a human trafficking ring getting wiped off the map. He manages to plant three backdoors into Hydra’s mainframe before the technicians realize vital information is being leaked onto the internet. He is particularly proud of how many of his handlers are ‘accidentally’ maimed on the job.

They notice eventually, of course. These malfunctions. Their perfect weapon is not so perfect without steady maintenance to clear away the rebellion in his eyes or the slight delay in response to commands.

Even with his memories back, he couldn’t resist the terror that this time the Chair would work. This time they’d finally be able to reach inside him and drag out every memory he carefully cultivated and replace it with empty darkness. It took all his control to let them pin him in place, to open his mouth for the guard that kept him from shattering his teeth, and let that awful metal crown settle over his face.

Each time he forces his mind to rebuild each memory with painstaking detail and lists each person he can’t afford to lose to the crackle of electricity and burning light.

Steve.

Rebecca.

His ma and pa.

The Commandos.

He repeats the list like a mantra as he straps on knives and guns and looks at the picture of the latest victims of Hydra. It keeps his hands steady when there’s blood cracking in the wrinkles of his leather body armor and deep in the grooves of his metal arm where no one bothers to clean. It keeps his screams at bay late at night when he’s alone and waiting for the horrors of the next day.

Weeks pass.

When his handler leads him to the cryo tube, he doesn’t fight. Just lets the ice steal his breath and slow his heart.

He thinks of Steve.

______________________________________________

The next time he wakes it is to a world gone mad.

Instead of a team of doctors and agents waiting for him to tumble into their arms on legs gone weak from the cryostasis, he opens his eyes to the closed metal door of his tube. For a moment, he panics. Had they finally decided to finish the job they’d started so long ago and buried him in this metal coffin? Was this some new form of torture meant to destroy him?

Before he can begin to hyperventilate and use up the precious oxygen in the tube, he hears the whir of the arm at his side like the sound of reinforcements arriving after weeks on the front. It is unbothered by the time spent frozen and unhampered by things like human panic and confusion. It slams into the wall of the tube with a deafening clang. Again and again.

The first rush of oxygen was a revelation. It brought with it dim lighting that flickered oddly against the shadows of the tube and Bucky set about peeling himself out like a sardine from a can. The noise is awful after the quiet and his muscles are trembling, but he refuses to stay inside the cage for a minute longer.

Minutes pass before he finally has a space large enough to reach his arm out and fumble for the latch that forces the door to creak open with one final protest. He nearly collapses without the walls supporting him, but he knows his muscles will recover soon enough. Until then, he can figure out what the hell happened while he was forced to sleep.

What was once an immaculately clean prep room is not pockmarked and scarred with ash and debris. The door hangs open on broken hinges and the computer banks have gone hollow and silent. A flicker of light sparks from where the wires connected the cryo tube to the power source flashed bright and sudden thanks to a wide gash that exposed the inner workings. 

Shaking and pale, Bucky gets to his feet with the help of the metal casing and scans the room for anything that might be useful. A quick search of the tables leaves him with nothing but a few spare bits of paper scorched beyond repair. He leaves the room as quietly as possible on the off chance that there are still agents of Hydra alive in the compound even as his enhanced hearing didn’t hint at more than a few ambitious rats.

He finds clothes in an abandoned locker that are tight around his chest, but cover his arm well enough. It helps keep the tremors at bay while he scouts for more supplies. Boots come from one of the few bodies left behind in what must have been a mad rush for the exits. He doesn’t think about how the smell of a rotting corpse doesn’t bother him any longer. There is even a Glock with a spare clip of ammo on the body’s belt that he takes with a grateful breath.

Then he begins to make his way outside.

He keeps his eyes peeled for anymore guards or agents coming to reclaim their lost weapon, but there’s nothing but destruction waiting for him. The ground floor is covered in more rubble and daylight pours in through the broken plate glass windows on the outer walls. The first signs of life come from the sounds of men shoveling and shifting the worst of the destroyed concrete out of the way of the street.

Bucky winces at the bright light and carefully tucks his gun out of sight. The construction workers haven’t noticed him yet so he takes a minute to scan the street.

Like the rooms below, what was once a busy city street in the middle of Harlem has been transformed into a scene taken from every soldier’s nightmare. Smoke streams in lazy lines across the sky from massive craters carving holes in buildings and streets. Ash drifted down like snow and painted the world in shades of grey. Bucky coughs and pulls up the collar of his shirt to cover his mouth as he spins slowly in a circle.

Then he gasps in horror.

A massive...beast--monster, his mind supplies, a monster--is laying draped over the roof of one building and spilling onto the streets below. It’s covered in some sort of armored plating that did nothing to disguise the massive teeth and weapons still hanging limply from its sides. Several smaller, more humanoid creatures are scattered along the street in piles where workers in bright orange vests have piled them.

_What the hell happened while he was asleep?_

“Hey buddy!”

Bucky’s mouth snaps shut with a click and he whirls to face the construction workers that are just outside what used to be a Hydra base. Now...now it was just another destroyed building in a city full of the same. He stares at the dark skinned man whose features are marred by streaks of grey ash and dirt along with his well worn clothing.

Something in Bucky’s expression must read as strange to him because he hesitates when he got closer. “You alright, man?”

“I…” Bucky licks his lips and tries to clear his throat. It had been so long since someone had spoken to him beyond barked orders that it was a struggle to remember that he was a human, not just a tool. “What happened?”

The worker stares at him strangely. “What do you mean?”

Awkwardly, Bucky gestures to the street around them. “Wh--were we attacked? Are we at war?” Now the man looks concerned and Bucky knows he can’t pass as some hapless civilian. Thinking quickly, he drags his fingers through his hair and winces, “Think I took a hard hit back there, pal.”

The man doesn’t look convinced, but now he walks closer and takes in the blood from the scrapes he’d gotten pulling himself out of the tube. After a beat, he gestures to somewhere further down the street. “There’s a medic station at the end of the block if you’re hurt,” he says slowly and frowns again at the building Bucky had come from. “You’ve been sleeping this whole time?”

Bucky’s lips twist into a mockery of a smile. “Something like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve tries to be a person again.

Steve Rogers went into the ice a grieving man, tasting Bucky’s name on his lips and Peggy’s sorrow in his ears. 

He emerged a blank slate. 

________________________________________________

Waking up to a world full of aliens, flying men in suits, and all manner of insanity is easy to accept when all you can remember about your life before the ice is nothing but frozen winds and grey slate waters. 

The psychiatrists at SHIELD tell him it’s just a side effect of being frozen for seventy years. Not that anyone knows how a supersoldier is _supposed_ to handle being frozen alive in the pit of a fallen plane. Maybe his mind was acting exactly as it should after all that. A factory reset of sorts. They give him all manner of new titles—retrograde amnesia, post traumatic stress disorder—but none of them matter aside from the smooth grip of his shield in his hand and the familiar adrenaline of a fight waiting for him. 

Besides, it’s not like they have a choice once the sky opens up and an army pours out. 

Not knowing his mother’s name or favorite foods doesn’t keep him from being able to keep people safe from the monsters that hunt them. In a way, the Battle of New York centers him in a way that hours of therapy never could. He trusts his body to react with powerful blows and maneuvers when facing his opponent in a way he can never truly trust the thoughts in his head. It’s enough to keep him sane. 

Afterwards, he begrudgingly agrees to continue seeing a long line of doctors and shrinks so long as it means he can remain on the active duty roster. He doesn’t even mind Natasha continuing to act as his minder. He keeps the cowl, the uniform, and the shield, but makes Fury promise not to share his real identity with the world. 

Captain America is the most important thing he can preserve—Steve Rogers may as well have died in that plane. 

_________________________________________________

“Again.”

Steve resists the urge to rip the photographs in front of him in half just to avoid another moment of this torture. If it weren’t for the fact that an outburst like that would leave him benched for weeks until his ‘breakdown’ was under control, he’d kick down the door and let himself out of this never ending appointment.

He sighs and points down at the aging picture once more, identifying each face. “That’s Falsworth, Dugan, and Morita. Peggy Carter is leaning against the car smiling at them. It was taken just after the Howling Commandos were formed.”

“Does the image make you feel anything?”

Again, he resists the urge to be honest. His eidetic memory means he remembers each of the faces that were identified for him by various therapists and doctors and historians, but it doesn’t make them _mean_ anything. At this point, he could probably recite the same useless diatribe they all give him. Right now, all he can think about is how he could be down in the gym practicing or in his office looking over intelligence reports for his next mission. There’s been whispers of a new branch of Hydra looking for traction in Europe…

Too late he realizes that he’s let the silence in the room linger too long. The weasel-faced therapist sighs heavily and closes his notebook like a disappointed father--something that neither version of Steve Rogers has ever experienced in person.

“Captain Rogers, I can’t help you recover from the trauma you’ve experienced if you’re not willing to help yourself.”

The urge to snarl is a living thing in his chest now and he has to take a deep breath before he speaks to keep from endangering his ability to continue fighting. That’s one thing the Steve Rogers of the past and present can agree on--the need to fight.

“Looking at pictures of people I don’t remember is a waste of time. It’s been months since I woke up and I still don’t remember anything new from before.” That’s not entirely true, but he isn’t about to let SHIELD know the truth of what his scrambled mind has produced in the dark of night. “It hasn’t affected my ability to complete my assignments satisfactorily.”

There’s pity in the therapist’s eyes now and Steve’s fist clench around the soft fabric of the couch. “This isn’t just about your ability as an agent...we want to make sure that you’re healthy emotionally in your daily life.”

Lies. He’s a weapon and weapons are made for action--not storage.

But he sighs sadly, gives the therapist the look they want--of grief and mourning--and says, “I know...it’s just been...hard. It’s hard to sort through the emotions and memories from before when the world is so different now.”

It’s bullshit, of course. He doesn’t want to remember anymore than he wants to retire and try to be a civilian again. He just needs to keep the legions of therapists at SHIELD happy and willing to let him fight again.

Thankfully, no one _really_ wants him to be benched here. Not when there’s aliens and gods walking among them. They need to the comfortable knowledge that Captain America is out there ready to bleed to keep them alive.

The therapist leans forward to clap him on the shoulder and gives him a sympathetic look. “Be patient, Captain. Your body and your mind have gone through a great trauma--it won’t be long before your past begins to come back. We just want to make sure you’re ready when it does.”

Steve smiles faintly and stands to shuffle back to his apartment, pretending all the while that he isn’t hoping that the therapist is wrong.

______________________________________________________

It’s not quite true to say that Steve Rogers doesn’t remember his past.

He comes out of SHIELD’s facilities with a handful of agents to guard him and all the talents of a supersoldier. At first, he thought that they want him to retire and try to integrate him into the normal population. He is forced to sit through class after class on race relations, world history, women’s rights--even the intricacies of LGTBQ rights and definitions. The young graduate student who’d taught that portion of the course had been shocked at how unbothered Steve was about these changes.

He didn’t mention the fact that he was pretty sure he was attracted to both men and women. 

SHIELD brings in ‘specialists’ that tell him all about the man he once was. Historians who spent their lives recreating in painstaking detail every battle plane and daredevil action. They crow about the courage he’d shown in Azzano when he rushed in to save hundreds of American and allied soldiers. 

He tries not to tell them that the Steve Rogers of the past sounded like an idiot for going in without any backup. What could have possibly made it worth the risk?

Agent Coulson pulls out journals and books filled with tiny details that he believed showed the ‘real Steve Rogers.’ He describes the years Steve had barely survived his sicknesses and ailing body. And how dedicated he’d been to his mother who’d passed away when he was young. He tells Steve about the boy from his neighborhood that had gone on to be the Howling Commandos sniper after being recovered with the rest of the men in Azzano--and the only one to lose his life. Besides Steve.

Somehow that part always seemed wrong. 

Mostly they try to trigger the pieces of his warped mind back into the shape of the American icon it once had been. They want the strong,selfless man who’d put the plane into the ice to save millions.Or the stubborn focus of a natural born leader capable of creating shockingly good battle plans at a moments notice. 

He only manages to give them the stubbornness. 

_______________________________________

He never calls Peggy. No one ever asks him why.

_______________________________________

The thing is, Steve isn’t quite as much of a blank slate as he claims to be.

It comes in bits and pieces mostly. The urge to fill in the blank spaces on his mission dossiers with sketches of the people around him or the faces that seem to linger long after the photographs are shuffled away. The panic that floods him the first time Natasha landed a blow to his sternum that emptied his lungs and sent him gasping for air. Even the frown on his face the first time he’d taken a bite of a banana felt like being possessed by the ghost of a man who’d disappeared long ago.

Mostly he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something--or _someone_ \--missing in his too-quiet apartment. He finds himself making too much food even for a super soldier’s diet and choosing recipes that avoid onions because something tells him someone doesn’t like them. That they’ll bitch and whine over each piece they pick out. He grabs science fiction books off the store to line his shelves at home even though he can’t seem to finish one. He stares hard at men with dark hair and a cocky walk each time they pass him in the streets.

It takes time to teach himself to stop looking. He tells his fractured mind that whoever they’re looking for is long dead. He’s in the future now which means he should be focusing on the tasks set in front of him. Brooklyn holds too many empty memories so he jumps at the chance to move to Washington D.C. when Fury asks. Natasha follows like she always does.

The new SHIELD team is a good distraction. Rumlow and Rollins are good soldiers and don’t treat him like he’s some kind of icon, just another man with a special set of skills. It feels liberating to sit with the rest of the Strike team after a successful mission and drink a beer that doesn’t taste right and won’t buzz in his veins. Natasha never likes to come but she doesn’t begrudge him his need to try to fit in somewhere. It’s better than wading through all the awkward blind dates she keeps setting him up with.

So Steve takes up jogging the same path and heckling the man who runs the same route. He catches up with modern history by wading through documentaries and textbooks loaned from the local college. He drinks with the Strike team and spends lazy Saturday mornings with Natasha watching the Cooking channel. He makes sure nothing in his lifestyle is enough to make the therapists and handlers at SHIELD think their favorite soldier is anything but a perfect patient.

He tries to pretend like he isn’t pretending.

His body rushes to fill the gaps in his mind. His arms remind him that he can hurl the comforting weight of his shield like a bullet through the air while his mind calculates the correct trajectory to injure, stun, or kill his targets. His legs move with a speed that means he can outrun any of the soldiers with him and chase down anyone foolish enough to flee.

The truth is that the only time he feels like himself is with bloody knuckles and the burn of victory in his veins.

____________________________________________________

“Would you change it if you could?”

The question comes with a vicious kick that would have sent him flying if he didn’t have serum enhanced reflexes. As it is, Steve feels a burning line of irritated skin painting a mark across his throat from the heel of her boot. He gives her a small frown which only has her arching an eyebrow, casual enough that he could almost pretend they were chatting over coffee.

“Change what?” he finally asks and moves in with a careful punch aimed at her jaw.

He’s been fighting and training with Natasha for weeks now. More than enough time for him to realize Natasha Romanoff could rip him to pieces if she wanted, but not quite enough for him to fight through some deep-seated urge not to hurt a woman. A lasting mark left behind in the muscles and bones of a long dead hero.

Natasha doesn’t bother to block, just tilts her head so his fist moves by her in a gust of misplaced air. “Remembering,” she says simply, “Don’t you want to remember?”

The question makes him pause and, surprisingly, Natasha allows him a moment to consider her question without pressing her advantage. Her eyes have gone flat in that way that tells him there’s more in play here than simple curiosity.

“Why does it matter?”

She picks at the sleeve of her sweaty t-shirt. “They used to wipe us in the Red Room, you know. To make us a clean slate between each mission and ensure we wouldn’t develop any ‘distracting relationships.’ There are parts of my past that I’ll never get back.” 

Her tone is the same as the one she uses to discuss what movie they should watch next on Netflix, but he isn’t fooled. The slight tension in her stance tells him how much that piece of her past cost her.

“Would you want to get them back? Isn’t it better to live without the pain?”

“For better or for worse, those memories were a part of me,” she shrugs, “I’d rather know the truth than hide in the darkness.”

Steve toys with the tape still wrapped around his knuckles and wishes he could return to the simple adrenaline rush that came with fighting, even for fun. He knew that conversations like this are exactly why SHIELD had chosen Natasha to be his minder--no matter how many times she claimed she stayed because she liked working with him. They wanted the Steve Rogers that was willing to sacrifice everything in the name of their cause. Not the Steve Rogers that was fighting without purpose, just to feel like he was doing something.

It makes him angry. Whoever he had been, that version of himself had given everything and they still wanted more. Exhaustion threatens to drag him under and it is suddenly all he could do to remain standing under the weight of all their expectations and hopes.

“Did you know there was a parachute in the plane?” he asks abruptly. “A perfectly preserved parachute...a life raft too. Hydra didn’t skimp on their safety supplies, I guess.”

Natasha goes still, reminding him of a cat waiting for a mouse to ease out of its hiding place.

“I may not remember what came before the ice, but I know what the evidence shows me. Steve Rogers-” The name still doesn’t feel like his own. “- went onto that plane with no intention of walking out again. If he had, he would have used the parachute or the raft or, hell, his own strength to make it to safety.”

“But the recording with Peggy--”

Steve waves off the weak defense of a long dead hero with a quick gesture. “Smoke and mirrors. He knew that it was more important for people to remember Captain America’s bravery than the reality of a man who was ready to die.”

She doesn’t acknowledge the way he continues to distance himself from the man who’d once controlled his body. It’s something that his therapists are quick to name and discourage. ‘Dissociating only make acceptance more difficult’ they say over and over again until he wants to scream at them. _They_ don’t know what it’s like to wake up in a stranger’s body, wearing a national icon’s face, and feel....nothing.

“Except he didn’t.”

“Didn’t he? There’s nothing left of Steve Rogers except a body and a shield,” he murmurs and begins ripping off the tape on his wrists, suddenly anxious to get away from the quiet gym and Natasha’s too-observant eyes. “Everyone he ever knew is dead or has forgotten him...so why would I want to remember the kind of pain and grief that would send America’s First Avenger spiraling into his death?”

Even Natasha doesn’t have a response for that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier finds a new target.

Bucky spends the first night of his freedom methodically digging every tracker buried beneath his skin and hidden inside of his arm out and planting them on random passengers at the airport. It’s tricky to disguise the blood trickling down his arm and side in the crowds, but he makes do. The pain is centering and helps him breathe through the panic and anxiety that comes with the thought of being out of control again. 

He doesn’t think about the cyanide pill that lies hidden beneath his back right molar.

He won’t be their weapon. Not again.

Weariness hangs over him like a cloud, but the drugs in his system combine with the hypervigilance that comes with being on the run with no allies. He manages to find an abandoned apartment building with a caved in roof that keeps most of the newly homeless from venturing inside. It’s close to where he and Steve grew up and the knowledge that he’s close to home helps soothe some of his nerves.

Bucky finds a mostly intact blanket tucked inside a cedar chest that bore that proud carvings of a family heirloom and carefully tucks it around himself. It smells like lavender and ash and conjures up memories of sitting in his mother’s kitchen watching her bake. The faded happiness of a man long gone and it’s enough to let him fall into a restless sleep.  
_________________________________________

It takes him three days before he’s able to fight through the nerves and instinctive wariness trained into him by Hydra before he’s able to leave his temporary shelter. Even with the gaping holes in the side of the building and the mist and ash that flutter in with every breeze, the building feels safer than anything outside. There are no cameras or guards waiting just out of sight here.

It’s tempting to let himself slowly wither away in this quiet space. To let the ghosts of all the people he’d killed under Hydra’s commands slowly suffocate him with guilt and the knowledge of just how many people he’d failed.

God, he _killed Howard_ , Maria--

 _‘Not your fault, Buck. You can’t save everyone.’_ Steve’s voice felt faint, missing the barely restrained fury and righteous indignation that Bucky remembers. Just thinking about him makes the knife in his chest twist and burn until he’s gasping for air and tears are trailing over his scruffy cheeks.

“But I still did it,” he whispers to the ghosts and the shadow of the man he loved even when he couldn’t remember who he was, “I killed them all.”

The image of Steve lingered somewhere just out of his sight, as pale and whispy as he had never been in real life. Sometimes Bucky imagines him as he was before the war, small and beautiful and so full of stubborn life he took his breath away. Other times he appears as the tired soldier, the light in his blue eyes fading beneath the terrible knowledge that war teaches you. He knows they're only figments of his broken imagination, but he can't help but find it comforting to think Steve is nearby.

It’s always better than the dreams where Bucky watches Steve drowning alone, over and over again.

It’s the ghost of Steve that eventually drives him out of the apartment and back into the dusty city streets full of people trying to pretend the world is continuing to turn after aliens came pouring out of the sky. He still has the Glock and a spare clip along with the Gerber knife he’d taped to his calf to protect himself with. Bucky knows better than most how many Hydra operatives could be wandering through the crowds, safely hidden behind masks of anonymity. It makes him edgy and tense. But after a week of waiting for some retrieval team to arrive, he starts to wonder if Hydra even knows he’s missing.

He pickpockets from people who look like they can afford it and waits in the long lines outside the shelters for food. Oddly enough, the constant scrounging for food helps him feel more relaxed in this strange new version of New York. He even manages to swipe a small collection of soft cotton long sleeved shirts and two pairs of sturdy jeans to keep himself from drawing attention when he moves through the city.

The technology and clothing is all different now, but his time with Hydra has taught him how to blend in and use them to his advantage. He still struggles with the strange nothingness that lingers from his time as the Soldier, but he finds a community in the ragged, sharp eyed veterans that gather around the VA. They don’t wonder why he keeps his back to a wall at all times or bother him when his mind goes blank for long moments. Just settle in beside him in silent support until he remembers who he is again.

The VA even helps him find his first job in this new millennium working with the construction crews still working to clear away the damage done to the city. It’s nice to build and heal instead of destroy. 

For a week, Bucky lets himself wonder what it would be like to become ‘Jamie Barnes, veteran and PTSD victim’ for good.

_________________________________________

The first time he sees the footage from the alien attack and the man wearing Steve’s uniform--using his _shield_ like it’s no big deal--he vomits into a trashcan on the street.

It wasn’t exactly a surprise that the government wouldn’t let Steve’s legacy as Captain America fucking rest after all the propaganda and war bond money from before, he told himself. Steve’s hokey face had been plastered on any solid surface for months during the war. He’d been an icon, smiling at the camera crews in his awkward way instead of the stunningly beautiful face he seemed to save just for Bucky. 

But that was before Steve Rogers drowned in a plane saving the world.

As soon as he was through emptying his stomach to the tune of disgusted sighs from other pedestrians, Bucky’s shock and grief is comfortably replaced with fury. He wants to be angry at whatever government asshole or politician who decided to drag Steve away from the grave and replace him with some new meathead. He wants to rage against every person who’d had a part in this new, miserable world he’s trapped in.

He tries to imagine going back to work with the construction team he’d been helping clear away debris or the shelter he’d been hiding for the last two days pretending to be a modern man. He could get a job doing manual labor where they won’t question why he’s able to work longer or why he can lift more than three of them combined. He could keep trying to disappear into the crowds of lost and confused faces.

He could be someone new and leave Bucky Barnes in the past where he belongs.

Behind him, the rest of the workers begin to shuffle away from the cafe back to the work site and he hears a few of them call out to him curiously when he doesn’t move with them. His left arm whirs sharply. It reminds him of all that was taken from him. His memories. His innocence.

The promise of a future with Steve.

Slowly he pulls off the fluorescent vest and tosses it to one of the men watching him. Hydra may have started this war, but the Winter Soldier would finish it.

____________________________________________

He starts with the bank vault where he’d been stored for God knows how long.

It’s still just as destroyed as it had been when he picked himself free only a few days before. The crews working around in New York had been more focused on clearing the roadways so they could ensure the emergency crews and first responders could move freely. He’s grateful for the time it gives him to do a thorough scan of the building before anyone starts to asks to wonder why this ‘bank’ has a hallway full of holding cells and a shredded cryotank.

There is a part of him that is a little too eager at the opportunity to return to the cool darkness where his handlers might be waiting for him. To obey the commands they’d spent years embedding into his bones, his teeth, his skin. He wonders if he’ll ever be truly be sure what thoughts are his own.

Still, he’s grateful for the deadly sort of calm that comes over him as soon as he steps past the gaping doors and into the side passage that was once concealed by a bank of filing cabinets. His hands are steady on the Glock he’d taken from the agents before as he moves quickly down the hallway. He can’t be sure there isn’t any security measures still active and he has no interest in fighting his way through a Hydra squad...at least not until he was armed.

Thankfully the bodies are still where they’d been before he’d walked away. Bucky searches their pockets as quickly as possible to avoid the lingering smell of rot and pockets the wallets and personal information he finds. He wants everyone to know the truth of how far Hydra’s corruption have gone. Faces of politicians and ambassadors swim through his brain anytime he tries to remember the years he’d spent as their puppet and he makes a mental note to buy a journal to start recording everything his broken brain spits out.

He makes short work of the armory and even finds a newer version of the uniform his handlers preferred for him tucked neatly in one of the cabinets. His first instinct is to burn it with the rest, but then he hesitates with his fingers on the black mask that hid his identity for so long. The mask and uniform are all that’s left of Hydra’s nightmarish creation.

Maybe he should remind them that nightmares can come for everyone.

It takes him five minutes to search all of the rooms for anything he could use. He keeps the cash stuffed inside a backpack he finds along with a few flash drives with whatever information he could recover from the ruined computers. The guns are a little more difficult to hide under his clothes, but that’s just another talent he seems to have forgotten learning. He looks at the rooms where he’d been twisted and scarred and broken and turns his back on it, the list of Hydra safehouses and secret caches burning in his mind along with the bank account details in his pockets. 

Then he burns the fucker to the ground.

__________________________________________________

Bucky starts his campaign where he knows it’ll hurt Hydra the most--their pockets.

It’s obvious that Hydra couldn’t have survived this long without deep reservoirs of cash to pad their influence. In the war, Peggy and Phillips believed Schmidt’s campaign was funded by the sale of art and artifacts stolen from the countries Germany invaded. Now, it was a little more complicated.

So he starts at the bottom and works his way up. His broken, fractured mind produces names and information without any interest in context or chronology so he begins filling page after page of his notebooks with frantic scrawls. From there it’s like a scene from one of his old spy novels as he backtracks through years of information to build a passable recreation of Hydra’s network in America and parts of Europe.

Then he’s stuck trying to decide what to do with the minefield he’s uncovered. Should he just burn the lot to the ground and risk that they’ll rebuild somewhere else? Cut off one head and all that meant his odds weren’t good. Running in with guns blazing felt like something Steve would do, but then, Steve had never had the patience for a long game. They’d been lucky that Peggy knew how to keep him distracted with smaller targets while she crippled bigger game with her intricate spiderwebs of information.

Thinking of Peggy brings him to his first option--going to SHIELD with his information and hoping they’ll forgive his years of murdering.

Or they might just shoot him on sight.

The anonymous information dumps he’d left them before going back into cryo wasn’t nearly enough to prove he was an unwilling participant in Hydra’s crimes. He couldn’t even be sure they believed any of the information he’d left in the first place. Which left him looking for a way to prove that even if he wasn’t innocent, he was at least loyal to the ideals the Howling Commandos had fought for.

It’s not until he’s buying an overpriced coffee in a random Starbucks just off of the Stock Exchange that he finally has a flash of inspiration. 

He’s waiting near the counter for his drink order when he hears a voice that makes him go cold and silent. The world around him disappears in the rush of blood in his ears and the sound of lungs struggling to fill with something other than blood. His left arm whirs faintly beneath his shirt and he slowly shifts so he can watch the sharply dressed bald man finish ordering his coffee.

Jasper Sitwell, a dark voice in his mind supplies.

_Ready to comply._

He thinks of a woman’s screams and the way Sitwell had smiled at the way she’d begged for his help. The Soldier remembers his own disgust at the waste of time and effort only distantly. Whoever she was, she hadn’t known anything of value to Hydra. It hadn’t stopped Sitwell from ordering her killed though.

Now Sitwell was walking through New York City without anyone knowing the sins that are hidden behind his sharp smile and expensive suit. Ordering coffee like he was just like everyone else, blending in with the morning rush of office workers rushing off to their jobs.

_Monster monster monster monster monster_

“--ir? Are you okay?”

The voice is unfamiliar and worried enough that Bucky blinks and slowly returns to the present to find the barista watching him warily. There’s a knife in his hand, but he isn’t sure how long he’s had it. Thankfully, no one seems to have noticed. He tries for a smile that feels more like a wince and nods, not ready to trust his voice with Sitwell so close. He takes his coffee cup from her outstretched hand and hurries to the other side of the store where he can watch Sitwell more easily. 

When Sitwell walks outside with his fresh coffee, he never notices the new shadow following him down the street.

_________________________________________

It’s not until he watches Sitwell make his way into the large, imposing building with Peggy’s SHIELD proudly emblazoned on the side that Bucky realizes just how fucked up the future is. He settles into a chair in a cafe across the street and watches at least two other Hydra agents walk confidently into the building, past the security guards, and up to their offices. All hope of turning over information to Peggy’s pet organization to help bring Hydra to its knees dies a quick death.

SHIELD is compromised--maybe it always had been.

He can’t be sure how far this sickness has spread, but even this much assures him that the information he’d so carefully planted to help SHIELD was probably erased before it could be applied. The thought makes the coffee in his stomach go sour and he picks at the sandwich he’d ordered to secure the table. Approaching SHIELD now would be a death sentence.

So he reevaluates his plans.

The only good news about this revelation is that he now knows exactly where Hydra is centering their power in the US. With SHIELD as a cover, they could respond and manipulate world affairs under the guise of protecting the civilian population. They could scout promising new members from the specially trained agents who enlisted with idealistic visions of helping others and twist them to their needs. Hell, they’d even get an early warning if anyone caught wind of a still-active Hydra cell. It was the perfect place to let their sickness grow. 

Bucky takes a long gulp of his now-cold coffee and stands, tossing a few bills onto the table for his untouched meal. Already, his mind is buzzing with safe houses and supply caches that were located nearby that he could raid for supplies and better weapons. The Winter Soldier uniform was still safely tucked out of sight in his makeshift home, waiting for him to pull it on. He fully intends to make every Hydra agent shit themselves in fear when they realize just what kind of monster was hunting them. He tucks his hands into his pockets and whistles the first bars of ‘The Star Spangled Man with a Plan’ as he walks away.

Looks like the first step to avenging Steve’s death would be destroying the organization created in his honor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Special thanks for any of you who took the time to leave me a comment--they make my day every time!
> 
> Next up: The Lemurian Star and Captain America comes face to face with a ghost.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and the Lemurian Star.

He gets the call to report in to SHIELD the same day he meets Sam Wilson.

The whole morning was an experiment in trying to blend in with a modern crowd. Natasha’s constant comments about how much time he spent hiding away within SHIELD itched in the back of his mind for so long that he finally decided to do something about it. It smacked of a challenge to finally accept one of the dates she constantly offered with various women around the office--something he wasn’t quite ready for. 

This, this he could do.

It was almost too easy to slip his latest watchers and make his way down to the reflecting pool route he’d marked the day before. Initially he’d planned on simply running the route and scouting out potential civilians to make contact with, but when he’d seen the familiar pacing and form of a military man, he couldn’t resist the urge to have a little fun.

The first time he passes the soldier, he gets by with a grunt of acknowledgment. Steve is forced to pour on the speed in order to swing back around and catch him as he goes by the Lincoln Memorial. This time the man is a little more irritated, but still waves Steve off with a “Yeah, yeah. On my left. Got it.”

Steve’s grinning by the time he barrels past the soldier the third time and is rewarded with a furious shout and the sound of the soldier trying to pick up the pace enough to catch up. 

It’s then that Steve realizes something about himself that wasn’t written in any textbook or online article--he’s a bit of an asshole.

The thought feels like a secret that he wants to cherish and hold close. Here was something about himself that hadn’t been recited by a hundred scholars or debated at academic conferences. It settles in his mind like a familiar sentiment and he’s rewarded with the memory of a laughing boy at his side, grinning and shaking his head with enough fondness in his expression to mark him as someone important to the Steve of the past.

The image lingers long after he gets the text from Natasha to return for a mission or the brief conversation with the good-natured soldier, Sam Wilson. It remains in the back of his mind like a nagging ache that tells him he’s forgotten something important, something priceless. He finds himself yearning for paper to try to trace the curve of a jaw still soft from childhood and press the memory into the present before he loses it again.

Instead, he picks up his shield and new stealth suit and tells himself that whoever the boy might have been, he was long dead now.

________________________________________________

Getting the call to respond to the hostages taken on the Lemurian Star felt like a godsend after weeks of training and useless studying.

Who cared about reality TV when he could be out fighting a real threat to the American people?

(Even if Project Runway was fascinating.)

The confusion from earlier that day disappears beneath the familiar rush of adrenaline and concentration needed to engage in combat. He’s working with Natasha again along with the Strike Team Rumlow heads up and he’s grateful for the familiar faces. At least he can count on them to have his back if this mission went belly up. From what Natasha said, this Bartroc character was more than capable of spectacular levels of violence.

“You do anything fun Saturday night?” Natasha’s voice was a carefully modulated purr beside him as they made their way into the airspace above the captured ship.

He wonders if she makes her voice sound that way on purpose around the Strike Team or if it’s subconscious. Either way, he gives Rollins a stern look when his eyes linger a little too long on the curves of her body on display beneath her uniform. Dangerously attractive or not, Natasha deserves their respect. Her grin is sharp when he looks back at her and he rolls his eyes. Definitely on purpose then.

“Unfortunately all the members of my old barbershop quartet are dead so…” He trails off just as the back hatch slides open and the sharp scent of the sea fills the bay. It was a running joke for him to pretend to be involved in strange activities on his offtime when she knew for a fact that he spent the night sitting in his boxers binging TV shows.

Natasha rolls her eyes, but he’s moving before she can come up with a retort.

For a brief moment, the rush of adrenaline is smothered beneath a wild sort of panic that Steve doesn’t need a therapist to interpret. Instead of the dark ocean in the present, all he can see is an endless field of white. There’s a woman calling to him over the staticky radio and he can taste his mortality like a poison. His mouth opens on a name that comes as naturally as breathing, “Bu--”

Then he hits the water.

The abrupt drop into the cold water is enough to yank him away from the past and into the present. Water closes over his head and he kicks hard to force himself back to the surface. The shield is awkward on his arm, but he’s grateful that he can rely on it to break the worst of the impact from such a fall. 

In his ear, he can hear Rumlow signalling to circle once before they eject so Steve has enough time to get on board and clear the first wave of guards. It was enough to get him moving toward the vessel before it disappeared. Luckily, it doesn’t take more than a few minutes to scale the side of the ship and slip on board.

He races down the gangway towards the first group of guards they’d marked in the first pass over the stalled ship. His feet barely make a sound on the solid metal and he keeps his eyes moving over each level to ensure he doesn’t give himself away to any lucky lookout. He can’t afford to make a mistake and risk being sent back to SHIELD to disappear under mountains of paperwork and desk duty. The air feels icy after his swim, but his heart is thundering in his ears and he feels the first vestiges of calm enter his mind as the first guard comes into reach. 

It’s the secret he never shares with anyone--the only time Steve feels like a real human is when his fists are bloody and muscles are burning with the effort left behind by a good fight.

The first man goes down with a grunt of pain courtesy of the vicious edge of his shield hurled at point blank range. He catches the rebound easily and uses the momentum to take out his next target. The move flows easily into a needlessly elaborate jump kick that knocks the other man off the side of the boat and scores him another point in his running bet against Natasha. Who says work can’t be fun?

The next set of guards are on the second level near the center of the ship so he double checks that his shield is secure before climbing up the railing toward their location. Their initial scans of the ship had estimated around twenty of Batroc’s men on board and Steve is glad to see the information is holding accurate. Once the next three guards are down, he figures the rest will be scattered around the interior of the ship. This time he lets the fight continue a little longer, not at all eager to end this mission and return to his empty apartment and the list of movies and books he’s supposed to get through to be a real boy again. 

It’s probably why he makes a mistake. 

“Don’t move.”

The sensation of a gun’s muzzle being pushed into the back of his skull is a familiar one. It makes him have a moment where all he can smell is ice and wind and smoke from some unseen source. He freezes, hands going up slowly while he tries to decide what to do next.

In his ear, he could hear Natasha’s calm voice through the comms as they swept in with stealth suits. “Incoming Cap, 30 seconds.”

He takes a breath and slowly turns around to face the French mercenary. The man’s eyes are wide with panic and Steve can see the way he wants to reach for his mic to radio a warning to the others, but his hands are white knuckled around his pistol. He could see the moment when the guard recognized just who he had at the end of his gun and set his jaw. This was about to get ugly.

Steve takes a breath, ready to reach out for the weapon and risk it going off in favor of being executed in the middle of the ship. He’s only got to last a few more seconds before the rest of his team arrives and will be able to help. It’ll be worth it to deal with a few lectures from Natasha if he doesn’t ruin such an important mission. Fury will have him on desk duty for sure if he finds out Steve risked a mission for such a dumb mistake.

He takes a step forward before the sharp pop of gunfire splits through the night.

They both freeze--Steve’s eyes wide as he waits for the pain to hit. Instead the guard blinks and slowly slides to his knees, gun slipping out of suddenly nerveless fingers. A dark stain spreads from a small hole on the left side of his chest in silent explanation.

Instinctively, Steve spins, putting the metal of the ship between himself and where he thought the shot might have come from. There’s a strange mixture of relief and excitement rushing through him at the realization that somewhere on this boat was a sniper that saved him. The sensation of someone watching him--protecting him--from afar feels painfully familiar and he can’t stop the urge to keep looking for a flash of metal or a dark shadow that would mark where his savior was hiding.

“Steve?” Natasha’s voice is quiet behind him and he jerks out of his searching to see her land neatly on the deck with a few of the Strike Team. “What are you looking at?”

He frowns, trying to rationalize his body’s reaction to what could very easily be a serious threat. “Do we have any snipers in this unit?” he asks instead of answering her.

Now it’s her turn to furrow her brow and look him over carefully before turning to scan the deck. “Two of the men with Rollins are cross-trained to snipe when needed, but I didn’t hear any chatter about taking a shot.”

Her rational explanation sinks in his gut like a stone and he wonders at the strange sensation of disappointment he feels that the sniper wasn’t...someone else.

But who?

His stupid, broken mind is an unnecessary distraction when there are lives on the line. The hostages are still waiting for rescue down below and he doesn’t have time to fight his memories over this. So he takes a breath and pulls his shield free from his back.

“Never mind,” he says quickly, “we need to get the engine room under control and get to the hostages. Natasha, do you mind?”

She gives him one of those dangerous smiles that makes Hawkeye blush and salutes. “Aye aye, Captain.” She disappears into the ship before he can roll his eyes.

“Rumlow, take your team and secure the hostages.”

Rumlow nods and gestures to the two men beside him to move out, but he pauses by Steve. “You alright, Cap?”

“Of course.” This time the lie feels a little too complicated for a smile so he just nods in the opposite direction of Rumlow’s objective. “I’ll see about taking Batroc out before the action begins. We don’t need him making things more complicated.”

He doesn’t wait for the Strike Team leader’s approval, just turns on his heel and heads blindly toward the area where he would most likely find the terrorist. He feels Rumlow’s heavy stare between his shoulder blades as he moves. Somehow it’s more disconcerting than the knowledge that somewhere on this ship is the sniper who’d had him in his crosshairs without taking the shot. 

Just thinking about the shot was enough to have his heart racing once more. The excitement and curiosity burning in him felt foreign so he could only imagine it belonged to the Steve Rogers of the past, not the present. Part of him wishes he’d cared more about the history sessions about his old unit even as he rationalizes that they probably didn’t know more about the interpersonal relationships between the group any better than he did. After all, everyone knew that the old Steve Rogers had been in love with Peggy Carter.

“Batroc spotted near the brig, Cap,” Rollins voice murmurs in his ear, low enough not to hurt his sensitive hearing and Steve changes course accordingly. Thankfully, he has no problem remembering the blueprints he scoured of the ship before the mission. He pushes the thoughts about the unknown sniper and focuses on the real threat here.

Failing to stop Batroc before the hostages are secured.

Steve leaps up the railing nearest to the control tower and fires the small projectile some tech had designed that allows him to hear the soft conversation inside in French. He’s grateful that the talent for languages carried through the ice because it doesn’t take more than a few seconds to translate Batroc’s orders. Won’t be long now before they start to realize they aren’t alone on the ship.

“Natasha, is the engine room secured?” he asks over the comms.

“Just a second!” The sound of grunts and the quick controlled breaths of Natasha as she undoubtedly destroyed a number of ill-advised terrorist guards filled the comms. He winces a little as a pained yelp filters through the mic. Then she’s speaking calmly into his ear, “Engine room secured.”

“On my mark,” Steve says softly, “Three...two...one.”

At one, he ignores the sounds of gun fire in his ears from various locations on the ship and hurls his shield through the glass protecting the steering and navigational panels of the ship. He’s on the first guard before the man can even reach for his gun and slams into him with all the force his super serum can provide. In the corner of his eye, he catches another man making a quick exit out of the side door, but he’s distracted throwing up his shield to block a spray of bullets from the final guard. As soon as he pauses to reload, Steve is on him with a kick that ends the fight quickly.

“I lost Batroc,” he grunts and runs toward the door where he’d seen him disappear.

Outside, the ship is quiet so he jogs down the stairs toward the rescue boats attached neatly to the side of the ship. He figures Batroc will probably take off with whoever’s left of his crew instead of risking an arrest from SHIELD. 

He’s so caught up trying to figure out where Batroc could have disappeared to that he barely manages to miss the flying kick that seems to come out of nowhere. Even with the shield, the blow is strong enough to send him stumbling back across the deck in an awkward roll that was meant to diffuse some of his momentum.

Batroc is on him before he can get back to his feet and the next seconds are filled with an adrenaline-fueled scramble to keep him from landing any of the vicious attacks raining down on Steve. He’s off-balance and fumbling between the shield and the fast-moving, well trained opponent. Batroc leaps through the air in a strangely graceful move that ends with his foot coming down with a thud just inches from Steve’s groin.

They stare at each other for a heartbeat--Steve’s eyes wide from the near miss and Batroc’s narrowing in concentration.

Then Steve’s fighting to get his feet under him while Batroc throws kick after teeth-jarring kick like he’s getting a bonus if he manages to take Captain America’s head off. He feels a rush of relief when he finally manages to get some leverage before they’re moving in a blur across the metal deck in a blur of punches and blocks. Batroc attempts another roundhouse, but Steve shoves hard with his shield and sends the mercenary flying back in a mimicry of their early confrontation.

Both of them are breathing heavily now and Steve feels anticipation curling hot and feverish in his gut at the thought of an opponent that actually forces him to apply his skills fully. He steps forward slowly and watches Batroc flip himself back to his feet in a flashy move. The mercenary eyes Steve and his shield like he’s looking for weaknesses and finding none.

“I thought you were more than just shield,” he taunts in French.

The statement irritates Steve more than it should. The near-mythical legends surrounding Captain America were like a chain he couldn’t free himself from, constantly dragging him back to his past. Not for the first time, he wishes he could drop the pretense of being the Steve Rogers and finally be honest with the world.

Maybe that’s why it isn’t difficult to reach up and pull the clasp free from his cowl and toss it aside. The shield follows with a clang and he’s left standing there with his hair spiky with sweat and no weapons beyond his own fists.

Slowly Steve raises his hands in a gesture that feels as natural as breathing and smirks, “Let’s see.”

Batroc smiles and they’re off once more, moving fast enough that even Steve is a little impressed with the other man’s training. This time there’s no attempt to feel out the other’s defenses or pull flashy moves--it’s all about disabling the other man as quickly as possible. 

Perhaps in deference to the close combat, Batroc doesn’t go for another leaping kick. Instead, he sends a sharp right hook screaming towards Steve’s jaw and follows it with a knee to his gut. Steve blocks both and responds with a punch of his own that sends Batroc stumbling back with a new hesitance. He gives him a moment to recover, but when the mercenary moves forward, Steve feels no guilt in using every one of the skills he practices constantly with Natasha to his advantage. 

It’s almost too easy to land the flying double axe kick to the Frenchman's head that sends him to the ground for the last time.

Steve waits a beat for any sign of movement before he smiles and stretches his arms over his head in an attempt to stretch out some of the tension in his muscles. The anger and frustration that seems to live beneath his skin is sated for now and he listens to the chatter over the comms to confirm that the rest of his team are also in good shape. 

It isn’t until he’s leaning down to retrieve his cowl and shield from the ground that he realizes he isn’t alone.

There’s a shadow of a man slowly moving down the stairs shadowed by the control tower with all the grace and silence of a trained assassin. He’s wearing black tac pants and a shirt that’s cut off on one side to show off the gleam of some sort of metal piece on his left arm. Definitely not SHIELD or one of the members of his Strike Team. The gun in his hand is in a classic at rest position, but Steve has no doubt that it could be trained on him in an instant if the man chose to. In contrast, Steve’s shot with his shield is complicated by the metal railing between them and a few electrical wires strung through the air. 

Slowly, he stands to his full height and lets the shield click into place over his forearm, body language loose but ready if need be while he takes in this new stranger.

The man takes a slow, hesitant step away from the stairs toward Steve and Steve frowns at the way he looks at him. His pale eyes are wide with a mixture of disbelief and a burning sort of emotion that makes something twist in his gut. Abruptly, Steve’s mouth goes dry as he takes in the sharp cut of his jawline and high cheekbones, the stubble on his cheeks making his features seem dark and dangerous in a way that the loose bun of dark hair on his nape contrasts. 

He wants to run his fingers through that hair and see if it’s as soft as it looks.

The visceral reaction to this stranger in the middle of an active mission makes him frown again. This man could very well be his enemy or another one of Batroc’s thugs. He shouldn’t let his guard down just because his dick decides to wake up for the first time since he got defrosted.

In contrast, the closer the stranger comes the more his stance seems to go loose with shock. His eyes scan Steve’s face hungrily, like he’s trying to fix it to his memory even as he searches for some flaw that he only he could spot. His fingers clench over his gun and Steve lets his left foot slide backward into a defensive posture in case he decides to attack.

The man sees the gesture and freezes, eyes flicking between the shield and Steve’s frowning face. He wets his lips a little nervously, voice rough like he hadn’t spoken in years. 

“Stevie?”

Steve frowns--at the odd nicknames and the way the other man looks like he’s staring at some mixture of the divine and the demented all at once. He stares harder at him, trying to place where he might know the other soldier from. “Who’s asking?”

Now it’s the brunette’s turn to look confused and he glances around the space in an automatic sweep for other enemies. His full lips twist in a mockery of a smile and he lets go of his gun to put his hands out in a placating gesture, “It’s me, Steve. It’s--Bucky. Your Bucky.”

_“Who the hell is Bucky?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming Up: Bucky's Perspective on the Lemurian Star and coming face to face with the man he thought he'd lost. Get ready for some angst y'all.
> 
> As always each of your comments and kudos are used to buy advanced weaponry used to beat my muse into submission. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky makes some new friends in strange places.

++ One Week Before the Lemurian Star Mission ++

Following Jasper Sitwell through his days was a masterclass in Hydra subterfuge and just how deep their hold on SHIELD truly was.

Bucky spent the better part of the week trying to identify all the faces he recognized from his time as the Winter Soldier before he finally had to acknowledge there were far too many for him to eliminate on his own. The only good news was that the heroes of the Battle of New York appeared to be clear of Hydra influence--even if he avoided all but the bare minimum of information on the imposter they had wearing Steve’s uniform and shield. He doubts he would be able to convince them to turn on SHIELD but it’s nice to know that some heroes still held the mantle without the taint of an old Nazi cult.

Whatever was going on with Hydra and SHIELD, Sitwell was knee deep in it. It was a struggle not to break into his perfectly modern apartment and strangle the man until he could watch the life bleed from his beady little eyes. The only thing stopping him was the knowledge that doing so would give away not only his position, but the fact that he hadn’t been killed in the fallout from the Battle. 

When even that wasn’t enough to keep him from pacing around the empty flat that faces Sitwell’s apartment, he went hunting.

His first target was relatively low on the food chain in terms of Hydra. Terrence Wilbanks was a low grade smuggler that specialized in medical paraphernalia. Nothing on the level of a supersoldier serum, but his involvement in the Weapon X Project was enough to make him a target for a number of angry people. 

Which made him dumb enough to run to Hydra for protection.

Now Terrence was sitting pretty on top of a small pyramid of small-time human trafficking groups paired with a small genetics testing lab nestled in the middle of Queens. It was a small kingdom built on the pain and suffering of innocents. One that he thought was safe with the Hydra spotters in SHIELD keeping an eye on him.

He was wrong.

Now Bucky settles himself on the expensive leather couch tucked against one side of a gaudily decorated office and waits for the man himself to arrive. He turns off the small desk lamp so he’s situated in the shadows and gets ready for a long wait. His eyes scan the shelves of books clearly chosen for aesthetics and color instead of reading material--how else could you explain _Twilight_ being stored next to _Of Mice and Men_ \--and wishes he could’ve brought his own book to pass the time.

Getting ready for this mission had felt a little too close to what he’d done as the Soldier, so he’d purposely left his mask at his tiny apartment and pulled a simple black t shirt on over his tac pants. The Glock laying across his lap was as familiar as an old friend and he takes comfort in the cool metal. He tells himself that if he can interrogate Terrance about his funding and where his money is shuffled off to, it’ll be worth the nightmares waiting for him at home.

There’s a click at the door and the man himself wanders in, distracted by the woman’s voice Bucky can just make out over the cellphone at his ear.

“Come on, baby, it was just one time--it meant nothing,” he pleads.

Clearly his dame disagrees judging by the increasing pitch over the line. Bucky smiles even as Terrance winces.

“Aw, don’t be like that, sweetheart. You know you’re the only one--” 

Whatever she might have been to Terrance, Bucky will never know because at that moment the window to his right explodes into a gleaming rain of glass shards and a man is hurling himself through to slam into Terrance’s stunned face.

Bucky has enough time to take in a bright red and black suit, completed with a full mask, two katanas and several guns strapped to the stranger’s body, before the man is pinning Terrance to the wall like a bug. His gun suddenly feels puny in his grip but he levels it on the man before sweeping the room and now-open window for any other unexpected visitors.

The masked man leans over Terrance and sucks in a dramatic breath, “Terry! It’s been too long since you’ve pissed yourself in fear because of me. How’ve you been? You still sleeping around on Maria?”

Every word out of the man’s mouth only confused Bucky more, but if Bucky was confused, Terrance was rapidly losing his grip on his ability to speak. “W--wwade….I, uh, it’s been a while.”

“Yeah, it has, Terry,” the man--Wade--says cheerfully before his voice drops to a deadly register, “Probably because you decided to disappear before I could skin you alive and wear it like a skin suit.”

Bucky decides he’s rapidly losing his opportunity to get any information from Terrance and stands up from the couch with his gun carefully aimed at the strange man’s back. He doesn’t really want to shoot the man--an enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that--but he can’t risk losing a lead into one of the New York branches of Hydra’s main income methods. 

Before he can move more than a step, a gun is pointed directly at his chest. Without looking, the masked man says, “Don’t move, handsome. I’ll get to you in a minute.”

“I can’t let you kill him,” Bucky replies quickly, muscles tensing in readiness, “I need information from him.”

This is enough to drag Wade’s attention away from slowly twisting his blade in the weeping man’s shoulder. The white eyes on the mask widen comically, “Damn, but I am a sucker for a pretty face.” Bucky rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “Alright, pretty, I’ll bite--consensually, of course. What do you want with ol’ Terry here?”

“I’m hunting Hydra--he’s my in.”

“Hydra, huh?” Wade looks back at his captive, who somehow manages to look even more terrified. “You’re playing with all sorts of nasty things now, Terry.”

Terrance stares at Bucky, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he finally recognizes him. “You--you’re the Winter Soldier,” he gasps, “You’re supposed to be dead!”

“So the rumors tell me…” Bucky says with a hint of a feral smile. 

Wade watches the exchange curiously and somehow gives the impression of raising an eyebrow beneath his mask. Bucky gives him a shrug and keeps his hand on his gun, “I don’t care what you do with him after, but I came here to question him about Hydra. He dies either way.”

“Wait, so you’re here to go on a bloody rampage all on your lonesome?” 

The strange man in the mask is completely ignoring his captive in favor of eyeing Bucky now and there was no mistaking the excitement in his voice. Bucky frowns at the odd reaction (he’s starting to feel like that is the most common expression for dealing with Wade) but he decides to take a risk with honesty if it means keeping another potential enemy of Hydra in action.

So he nods. “I broke their conditioning a while back,” he explains, figuring there’s no need to keep a secret when the only witness wouldn’t survive the night, “I’m not the Winter Soldier anymore--just Bucky Barnes. All I want to do is finish what I started during the war. Terrance is funding one of Hydra’s branches through human trafficking and--”

“Yeah yeah, and experimentation,” Wade cuts in, his voice losing all traces of the childlike humor it had before. He tightens his hold on Terrance and the man gulps, “I know all about that.”

Bucky reconsiders the masked man and the way he was covered from head to toe. It makes a new wave of anger bloom in his gut at the proof of another life ruined by scientists with no regard for human life. If Wade was one of the experiments from the Weapon X program, he might be a valuable ally for the war Bucky knows he’s about to wage. He considers the other man for a beat before slowly flicking the safety on his weapon and tucking it back into its holster on his thigh. Some of the tension in Wade’s body eases at the gesture but Bucky knows he’s still being assessed as a threat.

“Look, I just want information from him--give me five minutes with him and you can do whatever you want with him,” Bucky offers. Terrance starts to protest but Wade tightens his hold absently and he squawks in pain.

“I gotta say I’m digging this ‘assassin gone rogue’ vibe you got going here, Soldier boy. Makes me all tingly inside for sure and it’s a hell of a back story,” Wade rambles, seemingly oblivious to Bucky’s incredulous expression or the way Terrance has now wet himself, “That arm alone will be going right into the spank bank for sure. Maybe I’ll even think about those baby blues when I’m feeling dainty and vulnerable like. Speaking of looking vulnerable, shouldn’t you be out with Captain Spangles and the rest of the Brady Bunch instead of skulking around in the darkness with us anti-heros?”

Bucky blinks slowly at the absolute insanity spilling out of this man’s mouth and chooses to focus on only the last bit. “I’ve got too much red in my ledger to be a hero and I have no interest in joining the Avengers.”

There was no way he would have anything to do with the Captain America imposter. Or a version of SHIELD run by Hydra.

Wade stares at him for a beat before the mask stretches into a smile. “You like chimichangas, Soldier?”  
__________________________________________

Turns out having Deadpool as an ally is a little like having an over-eager, sex crazed, puppy on hand at all times. Except with katanas and guns.

After questioning Terrance, Wade had asked Bucky to ‘unalive’ him for him since apparently he was taking a sabbatical from killing for the time being. Something about trying to be a better hero for a spider. Bucky complied with the exhaustion of a man who was too overwhelmed with the constant flow of babbling information and pop culture references to summon up the energy to question it.

Nothing makes sense in the modern world.

They’d gone out for the chimichangas Wade offered and quickly rehashed Bucky’s plans for Hydra. At first, he’d been a little reticent to share his schemes with a stranger, but the deeper he dug into Hydra’s hold on SHIELD, the more apparent it was that he wouldn’t be able to dig them out with some kind of help. He needed allies. Wade might be certifiably insane, but he was a good fighter and more than willing to take on suicide missions as long as they were entertaining.

Terrance’s information was enough to confirm that Hydra was up to something from behind their cover of SHIELD. Whatever was happening, Sitwell was right in the middle of it. The man was part of their funding operations and knew far too much to be allowed to move without some sort of monitoring. Bucky just had to figure out how to manage it without also blowing his cover.

Associating with Wade also introduced him to the second member of his strange little team.

It started with Bucky grumbling to Wade over how difficult it was going to be to get proper surveillance of SHIELD’s systems and computer network with Stark’s programs being used. He needed to get inside their base without triggering any alarms _and_ make sure he wasn’t identified in the process. With Hydra nestled in SHIELD, any of the guards or staff could be a double agent that knew the Winter Soldier myth was actually reality--or it was until he’d disappeared in the aftermath of an alien attack. It was a headache that the Winter Soldier never had to contemplate--all he had to do was get in, kill the target, and return to his post to be wiped and start the process again.

Wade gives an excited little yelp and leaps backwards out of Bucky’s window (breaking his ankles on the street below) and disappears for four hours before returning with yet another red masked hero in tow.

Bucky stares at the smaller man curiously, taking in the stylized spider on his chest and quickly connecting the dots between the newspaper stories on a ‘Spiderman’ in Queens. Why the well known do-gooder was hanging out with Deadpool was a mystery.

“You’re Spiderman,” he says flatly and looks at Wade, “and you’re friends with this lug?”

Wade claps Spiderman on the shoulder and drapes his body partially over the other man. “We’re more than friends, we’re lov--”

“Yes,” Spiderman cuts in before Wade can continue, “we work together sometimes. Wade said you needed some help?”

“Aw, Webs, you don’t have to downplay your love for me just because Bucky here is ancient.”

Bucky glares at Wade, but Spiderman’s eyes widen and he looks delighted with the new information. “So it’s true then? You’re really Bucky Barnes? Like, Captain America’s best friend? I didn’t think Wade was telling the truth when he told me, but I gotta say it’s an honor to meet you! Aw man, I wrote a paper about the two of you for my history class last year. And, well, I got a B, but all the crazy stunts you pulled during the war were incredible!”

One day it’ll stop hurting to hear people talk about Steve, he tells himself. For them, it’s been years since Captain America sacrificed himself like the dumbass he always turned into without Bucky there to drag him back. For him, it was a nightmare he is still trying to accept as reality.

Spiderman was still rambling about the Howling Commandos and his relationship with Steve when Bucky refocuses on the smaller man. He frowns at the implications of what he was saying.

“Wait,” he cut in, “you’re just a kid?”

Spiderman’s chest puffed up in indignation. “I’ve been fighting crime for four years! I’m not just a kid.”

“What are you, eighteen?”

Christ, that would mean Spiderman had started fighting criminals on his own when he was only fourteen years old. Bucky turns to glare at Deadpool who only raises his hands in a placating gesture, “Don’t look at me, big guy. Stark’s the one who built him his suit.”

A vein begins to throb in his forehead and Bucky takes a measured breath. “Tony Stark built you a suit so you could swing around New York City fighting armed, adult criminals when you were fourteen years old,” he says flatly.

“I was fifteen!”

Bucky stares at him incredulously. Had they managed to clone Steve fuckin’ Rogers in the modern era? How else could you explain another tiny human trying to take on the world with nothing more than sheer willpower and righteous fury? At least Spiderman had superpowers or some shit to help--Steve had had to get experimented on in a shady government lab to really start getting into trouble.

He rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. “I’m too old for this shit.”

“Excellent reference, Buckster,” Wade crows and claps his hands. “Maybe you’re not that old after all!”

Bucky doesn’t even try to understand what he means, just flops onto his ratty old couch and tries to decide why his life always seems to turn into a clusterfuck. “I can’t take a kid to war, Wade. I’m not gonna risk another innocent life.”

“I can take care of myself!” Spiderman cuts in hotly, but Bucky is already shaking his head.

“Look, kid, I know you’re brave--you’d have to be to decide to become a superhero at fifteen--but this ain’t Queens or Brooklyn. We’re going up against a Nazi death cult that turned me into a monster and killed my…” His voice cracked and he had to clear his throat, “Killed Steve.”

“But, sir, Captain America--”

“It’s bad enough that Wade told you I was alive, but I’m not about to let you go rush off into danger, punk. It’s too much of a ri--”

Whatever Bucky would have said becomes moot as his training kicks in and he’s jerking to the side to avoid the punch whistling through the air at his head. Instinctively he throws up a block that sends the blow jarring into his forearm and swings roughly with his left. A red gloved hand shoots out in time to catch his fist mid-air and he’s left gaping at the wide-eyed mask of Spiderman.

“What the fu--” he spits, but Wade’s laughter is cutting through the growing tension in the room. Deadpool moves to Spiderman’s side and claps him on the shoulder with approval. Bucky doesn’t miss the way the gesture puts his body directly between Bucky and the kid.

“I taught him that move.”

“No, you didn’t,” Spiderman protests, but he’s breathing hard and Bucky can feel the tremors of nerves in his muscles. “And I can take care of myself, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Don’t call me that.” The title hung like a noose around his neck. He slowly moves his hand out of the boy’s grip and settles back on the couch, breathing through the leftover adrenaline and confusion.

This strange new world seemed to be designed to make everything more difficult. If it wasn’t Hydra hiding and growing in plain sight, it was teenagers going off to fight in wars that would leave them with scars that would never really heal. Seventy years have gone by and everything is still the same. Suddenly the weight of every one of the years he’s lived and the lives he’s taken is all but suffocating him.

A soft touch on his shoulder makes him flinch and look up at the wide eyes of Spiderman’s mask. “Mr. Barnes? Are you okay?”

The question makes him want to laugh. Is he okay? He’s been running on nothing but rage and frustration ever since he woke up in that damned tube. If there was any justice in the world he’d have died on that train and his sacrifice would have meant something because Steve would be alive and he wouldn’t be trapped in this world without him. Now it was all he could do to at least end Hydra in Steve’s name.

He sighs. “Are you sure you want to do this, kid? If they find out you’re with me, they’ll label you a villain and hunt you down just like they’ll do to me when they realize I’m alive. You ready for that kind of life?”

“If SHIELD is really Hydra, then it’s the right thing to do.”

And all of a sudden, Bucky is staring into the eyes of a painfully serious Steve Rogers declaring his intentions of going off to war once more.

He closes his eyes, damning himself as all kinds of a fool.

“Can you get into SHIELD without anyone seeing you?”

_______________________________________________

Within a week, he has Lemurian Star in his sights and the knowledge that Jasper Sitwell is finally well beyond the reach of his Hydra handlers.

Why Sitwell was on the ship in the first place is an odd collection of misinformation and confusing double speak among the Hydra agents located at SHIELD. He’s identified at least thirty active agents, but none of them seemed to expect hostilities from Batroc in what should have been a simple dead drop. Sitwell was to hand over a USB full of key mission details involving the Avengers while under the cover of being a hostage and wait for pickup from Strike One. Batroc and his men would be long gone before SHIELD arrived.

Instead, Batroc appears to have changed his plans in favor of using Sitwell as a bargaining chip against Hydra and SHIELD both.

Bucky listens for the sounds of the hostages being secured in the brig before picking his hiding place high on the watch tower above the control center. He’d picked it out ahead of time as being the best place to snipe from the blueprints gathered by one of Wade’s sources. 

It’s such a good spot, in fact, that he manages to catch Captain America in the act of invading the Lemurian Star on his own.

For a second, he’s back in 1943 watching Steve go tearing off into some Hydra bunker on his own without a single ounce of regard for his own safety. His scope finds familiar broad shoulders and the same iconic shield being whipped through the air like a stupid frisbee. Whoever trained this stand-in for Steve had clearly taken the time to learn his tactics before sending him out in the field.

It takes his breath away and make tears burn in his eyes with a sick sort of hope and excitement. 

He wants it to be real. He wants Steve to be alive so desperately that he’s finding proof in every burst of controlled violence and overly showy attack. For a moment, he closes his eyes and tries to tell himself that he can continue this mission without interacting with the impersonator. That he can get below the deck before the rest of Strike One arrives and take Sitwell to the boat waiting for him off the starboard side. 

All that goes out the window the second he sees the last of the guards on deck level his pistol at the back of Captain America’s head.

He’s gauging the wind and the distance with the ease of someone who’s done it far longer than any soldier had a right to. His gun is a steady extension of himself and he imagines he can feel the bullet waiting eagerly in the chamber. A breath and then he’s pulling the trigger.

The man goes down in a spray of blood that feels dramatic compared to the near silent puff of air from his specially designed weapon. He watches Captain America turn in confusion, searching for the source of the bullet with his heart thundering in his ears. He tries not to think about the easy Steve used to know exactly where Bucky was hidden like they would always be drawn together by some invisible link. It was practically carved into his bones to keep that giant, blonde idiot with a giant target on his back safe, even if his Steve was long gone.

He watches the rest of Strike One arrive, knowing he’s missing his window to retrieve Sitwell and leave before they notice him. He already knows he’s blown his cover. There’s no way Captain America won’t report an unknown sniper covering his ass on a black-ops mission. Silently, he breaks down his gun and slings the case across his back in favor of the smaller automatic rifle he brought in case of close combat.

Cursing himself for a fool, Bucky makes his way down the side of the control tower following the sounds of struggle within. Batroc’s men are dropping like flies, but Bucky’s isn’t surprised to see the man himself hurrying out of the command tower before Captain America can cuff him. Bucky shimmies down one of the drain pipes onto the second level stairs. 

He’s considering whether he can manage a shot with his rifle from this distance without having the Strike Team come for him when Captain America closes the distance and Batroc makes his move. The two soldiers meet in a rush of limbs and straining muscles that leaves even Bucky wincing at the speed and vicious power. Ste--Captain America is holding his own, but even Bucky can tell he’s scrambling to deal with the barrage of attacks from Batroc.

Bucky edges around the corner of the building and nearly runs flat into one of the Strike team members on his way to clear this level. Before the man can react, Bucky knocks his gun out of his hands in a blur of speed and dodges the awkward punch aimed at his head. It clips the edge of his mask and he ignores the sensation of air on his face in favor of delivering a vicious right cross to the sweet spot on the curve of the man’s jaw that knocks him flat. 

The soldier drops like deadweight to the ground and Bucky grunts as he tugs him out of sight and quickly strips him of his weapons. He replaces his magazines and the chambered bullet in his active weapon so even if he woke faster than Bucky expects, he’d have to stop to reload. The Strike Team would be able to pick him up when they cleared the vessel--Bucky would be long gone by then. The brief scuffle distracts him from the fight below and he’s quick to move into a position where he can cover the new Captain America if he can’t manage it on his own.

Instead he finds himself freezing in shock at the sight of a long-dead man’s face revealed by the cowl laying on the ground nearby.

_Steve._

Alive. Here.

It was impossible. It was...more than he ever deserved to witness after all the sins he committed.

Batroc is laying motionless on the ground at his feet and Bucky watches Steve breathe heavily as he stands over his foe. The sight is so strange, so impossible that it’s all Bucky can do to remain standing. His feet find their balance in moving closer, always closer to the man they’d always followed.

It;s not until he’s halfway down the stairs that Steve looks away from his fallen enemy to stare up at Bucky. The move highlights the familiar curve of his cheek and the stubborn tilt of his jaw. Full lips purse in a precursor to the furrowed brow frowning in confusion as he approaches. His eyes are shadowed slightly in the service lighting and Bucky hesitates when there’s no sign of the relief or excitement that are roaring through his own veins like a drug.

Steve shifts slightly, eyes on the gun in Bucky’s hand and Bucky can practically feel the way he’s considering this new threat. The movement and expression is enough to curb some of his giddy excitement at the sight of seeing Steve _here, alive_. Bucky frowns at him, trying to come up with some explanation for the strange reception.

Did Steve know about the Winter Soldier? Did he know what Bucky had done for all the years when he’d been lost to the ice?

He licks his lips nervously, voice hoarse with a mixture of hope and fear. “Stevie?”

The man across from him looks confused at the nickname from their childhood and Bucky feels his heart sink in his chest like a stone. He starts to wonder if maybe he hallucinated the features of the man he’d loved, the man he’d lost onto some stranger’s face.

“Who’s asking?” And it’s Steve’s voice. Steve’s deep baritone asking about him like he has no idea who Bucky is anymore.

Despite the pain in his chest and his rising panic, Bucky knows he can’t turn away from this unexpected miracle. He can’t just escape from the ship knowing that he left Steve behind once again. 

“It’s me, Steve” he says instead and tries to make his voice sound soothing instead of terrified. He knows without checking that their time to speak without interruption is fast coming to an end, “It’s Bucky. Your Bucky.”

Steve’s frown only deepens and Bucky watches his hands twitch for his shield like he’s considering an attack. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

The words land like a blow, twist like a knife and leave him panting, breathless with shock and hurt. He blinks hard, wishing that this was just another one of the hallucinations that had plagued him in the first days of freedom from Hydra, but he knows the familiar burn of reality. He takes a breath, trying to find the words that could fix this and bring Steve--his Steve--back to him.

Steve’s eyes flick somewhere behind him and Bucky knows his time has run out. Before Steve or whatever member of his team that’s approaching can do anything, he spins on his heels and sprints down the narrow corridor between the towers. Heavy footsteps follow in his wake and he knows Steve won’t let him disappear without trying to bring him in with the rest of the mercenaries.

Quickly, he reaches for one of the small metal balls strapped to his chest and yanks it free. He darts around a corner and lets it fall to the ground without losing speed. Two seconds later, the space fills with a thick smoke that has his pursuers coughing and stumbling to a stop behind him. The familiar press of his mask across the bottom of his face ensures he won’t fall to the same painful tear gas concoction.

Any guilt he might have felt for triggering the gas on Steve disappears when a shift in the air behind him and a quick roll is all that saves him from getting the back of his head smashed in by Steve’s shield. He grins, despite the situation because he knows how furious any version of Steve Rogers will be when he realizes he’s lost his opponent.

Bucky glances back only once in his mad dash to his escape route. It’s enough to see Steve stumbling out of the smoke with one of the Strike members dragging along with him. He’s gagging and coughing, but even from this distance Bucky can see the frustrated anger rolling off him in waves. 

They make eye contact from across the ship. One set of eyes streaming with tears and red with irritation while the other is obscured by the mask and goggles he now wears. Steve’s mouth shapes and vicious curse and Bucky grins, shooting him a quick salute before he lets himself fall off the side of the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being a LOT longer than I expected it to. I'm not super confident with the first half, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway.
> 
> I've never written Deadpool or Spiderman before, but I thought it would be fun to have them working with Bucky against SHIELD/Hydra. In my head, Spiderman is Tom Holland and around 18 years old at this point. While he's worked with Stark before, he isn't close to the rest of the Avengers yet. Sorry if that's a little OOC. I've always liked the idea that Peter Parker is low key like pre-serum Steve in terms of going on righteous crusades.
> 
> Next chapter will feature Steve meeting our favorite villain, Alexander Pierce and learning the legend of the Winter Soldier.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve meets Alexander Pierce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long to get out. Life has been crazy. Hope you enjoy the building tension between Bucky and Steve at least.

Steve slams his sweaty cowl onto a table in the armory and stalks down the hall without bothering to strip off the rest of his uniform.

Between Natasha’s secret mission from Fury and the strange conversation with the man--with Bucky--on the ship, he’s furious. It was stupid to believe that SHIELD and his supervisors would trust him with anything when it appeared all anyone ever saw was poor, amnesiac Captain America. He tries not to think about how badly Natasha’s betrayal stung. He thought she, at least, was a friend.

He doesn’t bother to wait for her now as he makes his way to Fury’s office. Since arriving in D.C., he’s only seen Fury once or twice for debriefing any major mission and now he’s beginning to wonder if that was to keep him in the dark. There were too many secrets hiding in this building and he wasn’t about to let this one go.

 _Who the hell was Bucky?_ And why did he seem so damned convinced he knew Steve?

There was an itch between his shoulder blades that hadn’t gone away since the first guard had fallen to the sniper’s shot. If he’d wanted to, the strange soldier could have killed Steve just as easily as he had the nameless mercenary. So why hadn’t he? And why had the sight of him caused such a visceral reaction in Steve’s stupid, broken brain?

With that in mind, he stalks past the men and women who always seem to be frantically rushing to and fro on some series of top secret activities. The stone faced woman closest to Fury’s door attempts to waylay him before he can make it to the door, but he hits her with the same stern look he’d seen in the old propaganda videos.

“Just don’t, ma’am,” he says and she narrows her eyes for a moment before nodding and retreating to her desk.

Inside, Fury’s familiar dark jacket and furrowed brow is silhouetted against the large windows that make up one side of the office. Steve isn’t sure how he can concentrate with his back to the outside world, but it doesn’t seem to affect the way Fury seems to know everything about every little person in and adjacent to SHIELD. He’s not even surprised to see Steve’s irritated expression marching into his office without an appointment, just a little tired. Natasha probably warned him before the quinjet even touched down.

“Captain Rogers,” he says before Steve can open his mouth, “I wasn’t aware we had a meeting scheduled today.”

Steve grits his teeth but refuses to back down. “I expect an explanation for why an operative on my team was tasked with a secondary mission that put hostages at risk without my knowledge.”

“Agent Romanov doesn’t work for you, Captain. She has her own missions to complete in the field and is not required to clear it with you--nor am I.”

“She risked innocent lives by leaving her post.”

“From what I understand,” Fury cut in with an arch of one eyebrow, “the bigger threat to your mission was the unknown assailant that was able to escape the Lemurian Star without being identified _or_ brought into custody.”

Steve’s temper flares at the reminder of the sniper’s mocking salute as he slipped off the side of the ship and into the waters below. He’d been gone so quickly that even Steve hadn’t been able to follow once he’d shaken off the worst of the effects from the damned tear gas. Just the thought of the mischief in the other man’s eyes was enough to have his hands twitching into fists--to strangle him or drag him close, Steve wasn’t sure.

“The man--the soldier said he knew me,” he says after a beat, accepting the change in topic.

Fury scowls at Steve like he’s being particularly dense. “ _Everyone_ thinks they know you--you’re Captain America.”

“But…” Steve begins, but both men pause when the secretary from before knocks sharply on the door and looks over at Steve.

“Excuse me, Director Fury, but Director Pierce has asked to speak with Captain Rogers,” she explains.

“What does he want?”

“He didn’t say.”

Fury sighs heavily and stares at Steve with one eyebrow arched. “Alright then, you’re free to leave, Captain. Provided that you’re done attempting to test my patience on how I choose to run my missions.”

And, because Steve’s only recently discovered his deep and abiding need to be an asshole when he’s frustrated, he nods and says, “We’ll continue this discussion later.”

_________________________________________________

If Nick Fury’s office is a study in clean lines and sweat-inducing views from the massive windows, Alexander Pierce’s space is a nightmare for a soldier. Two full walls are completely made up of the same floor-to-ceiling windows as Fury’s while the rest of the space is sparsely furnished and open to the interior as well, thanks to a long glass panel. Anyone walking down the hallway could look in and see Pierce hard at work at his desk or meeting with whatever delegate on his roster that day. It’s excessive and far too open to settle the restlessness humming beneath his skin.

Steve enters the space cautiously, eyes scanning for cover and trying to hide his pleasure when he found none aside from the flimsy desk. When had people stopped using wooden furniture? This plastic nonsense felt like it would break if he stared at it too long. Thankfully the glass wall that faced the other offices on this floor, dimmed to opaqueness once Steve stepped through the door.

Instantly, Pierce looks up from his paperwork and smiles jovially at his guest. “Captain Rogers! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” he says, rounding the desk to give him a firm handshake.

Steve smiles the practiced smile that’s ingrained in him even without his memories. “Director Pierce, it’s nice to put a face to a name. Everyone at SHIELD is always singing your praises.”

Pierce waves off the compliment and gives an awkward shrug. “Whatever I’ve achieved is nothing compared to the work brave men and women are doing out in the field. Come on, now, sit down--you must be tired after your mission! I hope you’ll forgive me for dragging you right off the jet.”

“It’s fine,” Steve lies easily. It’s not. He’s tired and grouchy and ready to get home to find out what he can about the sniper who’d saved his life. “How can I help you?”

Pierce looks like he knows Steve is only placating him because he has to but he waves Steve over to two delicate--and no doubt incredibly expensive--chairs nearby. He waits for Steve to awkwardly settle his bulk into the small space and try to figure out what to do with his hands or the shield still latched onto his back. He finally just laces his fingers together and leans forward so he can appear to be listening intently when he’d really rather be anywhere but here.

Some of the cheerful expression on the politician’s face faded as he took in Steve’s presence for moment. Then he sighs and runs a hand over his face, careful not to disrupt his perfectly combed hair. 

“I called you in today to talk about something...delicate, Captain,” he says and Steve feels some of his annoyance disappear under a shallow curiosity for what might have triggered this meeting. “I received information from your mission on the Lemurian Star that you were approached by a hostile agent.”

The idea of the sniper as being a threat settles oddly in Steve’s mind. Even with a gun openly in his hand, something in Steve had rebelled at the idea that the soldier--Bucky, if he was telling the truth--would hurt him. He rationalizes the sensation with the reminder that Bucky had plenty of opportunities to shoot Steve before he even noticed he was there. Instead, he’d chosen to take out the guard threatening him.

So he focuses on the second detail of Pierce’s statement.

“How did you…?”

Pierce waves away his question easily. “I haven’t always worked for administration, Captain. Rumlow and some of the other members of Strike One were some of my best operatives when I worked in intelligence. They warned me that you’d been contacted by the sniper on board the ship and confirmed he was not one of Batroc’s men.”

“The sniper did not attack a member of our unit--he assisted in taking down one of Batroc’s men. We haven’t confirmed that he is a hostile party.”

“Actually,” Pierce cuts in with a frown, “the sniper did manage to jump one of the members of your squadron--Private Jameson, I believe. He sustained minor injuries, but it could have easily been worse.”

“You act as though you know this sniper,” Steve says slowly, eyes focusing on the microexpressions on Pierce’s enigmatic face.

A face quickly twisting with a mixture of distaste and sorrow.

“How much do you remember from your time before the ice?”

The abrupt change in topic startles him enough that he blinks, fidgeting a bit in his chair as he considers Pierce’s interest in his past. Are they considering benching him because Jameson got hurt? Or because he wasn’t able to detain the sniper?

“Very little,” he finally offers. “Only muscle memory from my fight training and what I must have picked up after I took on the mantle. I’ve been briefed on the most important details.”

Pierce nods thoughtfully, lips still downturned into a sympathetic expression. “I only ask because the sniper you ran into on the Lemurian Star was once a member of your old unit.”

Steve freezes. “How is that possible?”

“In October, 1943, you were sent out with a propaganda unit to perform in front of a group of soldiers on the Italian Front--”

“Yes, and I was told that most of the 107th had been captured by Hydra and busted them out,” Steve cuts in impatiently. The Battle of Azzano was one of the favorite topics of the historians and fans who’d been tasked with returning his memories. He feels like he could recite the statistics from memory at this point.

“Right. The rescue marked the beginning of your career as Captain America,” Pierce continues with another fond smile that makes Steve want to scowl, “Several of the soldiers you freed from Azzano would go on to form your team, the Howling Commandos.”

Steve focuses on resisting the urge to cut in again with a reminder that this was all material he’d covered before getting cleared to work by SHIELD. 

“One of the men was trained as a sniper and continued in that position as a member of the Howling Commandos--his name was James Buchanon Barnes and he was your friend. Unfortunately in the last mission before you crashed the Valkyrie, Barnes was killed in the line of duty attempting to recover a Hydra scientist.”

For a moment, all Steve can hear is the howl of some far off wind and a bitter chill that works to settle into his bones like a disease. His breath sounds loud against the buzzing in his head. The image of wide, frightened blue eyes superimposes itself over the strangely familiar face of the man from the ship.

Killed in action. His sacrifice wouldn’t be forgotten. Barnes would’ve wanted you to continue.

The words echoed in his mind like false comfort and the sharp taste of whiskey.

Oblivious to Steve’s inner turmoil, Pierce continues, “He was given a hero’s funeral and considered one of the first real members of SHIELD to lose their lives in the effort to bring down Hydra...However, we have reason to believe that Barnes’ loyalty was not what it appeared.”

Voice rough and mind still spinning, Steve frowned at him. “I don’t understand. Barnes died.”

“In the seventies, SHIELD began to hear rumors of a Hydra assassin that was responsible for the death of over a dozen agents in less than a decade. Somehow the assassin managed to disappear for years at a time, only to reappear with a new series of murders to add to his tally. They called him the Winter Soldier,” Pierce paused to fill a small tumbler with amber liquid from a decanter. He pressed the first glass into Steve’s hand before draining the second. “ He was a ghost story, a myth. No one could manage the levels of violence he was capable of. It wasn’t until the nineties that we finally managed to identify the Winter Soldier’s true name ...James Buchanon Barnes.”

________________________________________

Hours later, Steve stumbles into his lonely apartment feeling every one of his years dragging down his shoulders and the weight of the folder in his hand.

Evidence of James Barnes’ betrayal and career as the Winter Soldier.

Each photo of a too-still body or lifeless pair of eyes seems to burn holes into his fraying control. Each victim a silent witness to the evil Barnes had been hiding behind the cockeyed grin and bright blue eyes that had teased him hours before. Steve can feel it mocking him from the small framed photo of the Howling Commandos someone had hung on his bare living room wall.

_He was your friend._

_He used you to feed information to Hydra about SHIELD._

With a soft groan, Steve sits down heavily on his couch and presses his palms to his aching forehead. On his coffee table, the file sits waiting for him to continue to read through the crimes he allowed to happen. It makes the loss of the Soldier on the boat sting like acid. No wonder Fury was so pissed at him--he’d let an assassin escape. All of his superserum had been useless in the wake of a familiar face and teasing grin.

He was an idiot.

Steve pulls his shield free from its harness and runs his thumb along the smooth edge. Whatever Barnes’ had been to him before, it was obvious that SHIELD had no intention of allowing the man’s reign of terror continue. Now that they had a Captain America on their side, they were finally ready to face the serum-enhanced Fist of Hydra. 

Whatever he had been to Steve before, Bucky Barnes was nothing more than a target now.

And Steve never missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, I suffer from a rare illness that can only be healed by your comments and kudos. They make sure I don't do anything stupid like forget to update.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky discovers a Plot

It says something about Bucky’s life that he isn’t even surprised to find a bloodied corpse stretched out on his worn couch.

His clothes creak and brush roughly against his skin as a constant reminder of what had happened that night. The salt water from his impromptu swim yesterday had caked into his hair and gear and completely ruined two of his favorite guns. It’d taken him most of the night to make it back to his safe house using the boat he’d left tied to the side of the ship. He’d barely managed to make his rendezvous at the pick up location and by the time he limped into his apartment the next day, he is comfortably numb.

Or was, at least, until he recognizes the two men in red invading his space.

The knife in his hand drops on the table with a thunk followed by his ruined boots and salt-crusted jacket. Focusing on the two vigilantes in his small studio apartment was easier than thinking about the shitshow that had been the Lemurian Star.

His mind keeps going back to the image of Steve’s face--confused, calculating, and utterly unmoved by Bucky’s presence. There was no sign of the boy he’d loved or the man he’d died for in those familiar features. No flicker of recognition or any of the grief that plagued Bucky like a disease ever since he regained his memories.

It was like Steve Rogers was dead and some stranger now inhabited his body.

“Sergeant Barnes!” Spiderman says, dropping the spatula he’d been using to flip the pancakes he was making on the stove. “I didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”

Bucky glances over at Wade’s too-still body and frowns. “Obviously not.” Casually, he tugs another knife free from his belt in case he was stumbling into the scene of some fight. He was pretty sure the Spider kid and Deadpool were in some sort of strange relationship, but he’d been wrong before. "What happened to him?"

“Oh, that…” The webslinger somehow manages to look uncomfortable through the fabric of his mask. “Wade decided to rush a group of guards when we were gathering information. He’ll be fine in a minute or two.”

Bucky stares at the hole in Wade’s chest dubiously and wonders where he went wrong with his life to reach the point where he discusses a corpse to a teenager making pancakes. He’s probably disassociating again, but he can’t quite summon the energy to engage fully with this situation. “I hate to tell you, kid, but you don’t wake up from hits like that.”

“Wade is a littl--”

“I LIIIIIIIIVE!” The man in question says dramatically with his arms outstretched as he slowly sits up.

“Different…” Spiderman finishes awkwardly. He leans around Bucky to smile at the red suited zombie. “Want some pancakes, Wade?”

Deadpool makes a pleased little squealing sound and claps his hands like a child in a candy store. “Oh, Spidey you know just what to say to make my heart pitter patter.”

Bucky imagines he can see the way Spiderman rolls his eyes behind the mask. 

Tired and heartsick, Bucky settles into one of his mismatched kitchen chairs and rubs a hand over his face. All he wants is to shower off the grime and sweat from the failed mission and fall into his bed to hope he’ll wake up and this will be some kind of horrible nightmare. 

Instead, he has to focus on what facts he has.

The first is that Steve Rogers was alive. The thought is enough to keep him from spiraling the same way he had when his handlers had shown him the recordings of Steve’s final moments in the Valkyrie.

The gift that was Steve’s survival was tempered by the second of Bucky’s facts--the man on the ship wearing the uniform of Captain America had no idea who Bucky was. There was none of the warm affection that had lingered in his eyes in the streets of Brooklyn and amidst the trenches and nightmares of the war. No sign of the burning heat or wicked smile that always led to the press of hot skin and wandering hands. 

The irony of Steve losing his memories instead of Bucky after years of Hydra torture was not lost on him.

His fingers clench around the edge of the table until it groans in protest. Steve Rogers not knowing Bucky Barnes, not being willing to have his back in a fight, or even wanting to speak to him is an unfathomable thought. For so long he had been one half of a whole person. It was Steve and Bucky for as long as he could remember--the before and after meaningless in the face of their partnership. Without Steve, it feels like his world is tilted oddly on his axis, like he can’t quite get his footing back.

He thinks about how Steve’s hands clenched around his shield in preparation for the throw. The way he’d tracked each of Bucky’s movements for the one that would signal an attack. The familiar frown that settled between his brows when Bucky called his name and reached out to him. It was like meeting a character from a favorite book--he knew exactly what Steve was thinking, the way his body would move, while Steve was staring at a stranger.

_The cool press of the doorknob in his hand feels like the worst kind of anticipation, a promise that once he stepped through the door, there would only be the chill of reality and war waiting for him. Behind him, he could feel Steve’s eyes on his back, memorizing the shape like he planned to draw it over and over again. Maybe he would._

_Maybe it would be the only thing he would remember him by._

_Bucky takes a breath, feeling like his lungs can’t remember how to fill. He’s dizzy with regret and worry. What will Steve do if he gets sick without Bucky there to care for him? Who will pull him out of his latest brawl and patch up the worst of his cuts? Who will hold him when the cold creeps in through thin walls and leaky windows to bring pneumonia and fevers?_

_“Buck?” Steve’s voice is rough and Bucky knows he’s trying to cover the fact that he’s been crying for most of the night._

_“I’ll be back before you know it,” he lies. “Try not to forget about me until then.” He tosses one of his practiced smiles--the one that made the girls at the dancehall blush and giggle and Steve scowl at how fake it looked--over his shoulder at the blonde sitting miserably in their bed._

_Steve’s lip trembles but he raises his chin with all the solemnity of someone making a blood oath. “Never.”_

“Bucky?”

Bucky looks up to find Deadpool and Spiderman staring at him with varying levels of concern. The younger man takes a hesitant step forward, looking torn between giving him space or offering a hug. Wade slides over a plate piled high with pancakes.

“You look like you could use some food, handsome,” he offers and Bucky looks down at the plate blankly.

Methodically he reaches for a fork and tries to focus on the hot food in his mouth when all he seems to taste like the saltwater he’d swallowed swimming away from the only man he’d ever loved. The two men watch him carefully, Wade’s constant chatter forming a wall of sound that Bucky lets fill the vacuum inside his mind.

“--that Rumlow character is a real asshole. I bet he kicks puppies when he walks down the street on his way to buy more puka shell necklaces and tight t-shirts,” Wade rambles and Bucky flinches in surprise at the familiar name.

“What?” he asks, voice rough. “What about Rumlow?”

Spiderman flicks a glance towards Wade but reaches for a thick folder without hesitation. “We were able to get into Hydra’s mainframe using the codes that you and Sitwell provided. They confirmed that Rumlow is an active member of Hydra tasked with manipulating outcomes in major STRIKE team raids after the Winter Soldier program was destroyed in the Battle of Manhattan. Currently, he’s been working with Captain America’s team.”

He thinks of the black uniforms streaming to Steve’s side in an effort to capture Bucky and feels his heart sink. Steve’s surrounded by enemies and he doesn’t even know it. Now all Bucky can think about is how he can manage to get Steve free when the supersoldier thinks he’s nothing more than an assassin. 

Bucky flips open the cover of the folder to find a picture of his own face--pale and sweating from his position on the operating table--staring up at him beside meticulous notes about the Winter Soldier program. The first several pages are detailed descriptions on the care and maintenance of ‘The Asset’ before transitioning into some of the more recent missions he’s been sent on. After a moment, he closes the folder so he can concentrate on breathing through the guilt and grief of having his life stripped from him so easily. Of how many lives were ended at his hands

Wade is uncharacteristically silent as Spiderman continues to speak. “Bucky, do you know anything about a program called Project Ensight?”

He shakes his head. “I wasn’t programmed correctly in New York for a new mission. The only reason I was able to escape was because the cryo unit was shut off in the battle.”

Spiderman and Deadpool exchange a look before the younger man passes over a thin file. “All of the Hydra operatives you had us look up on the mainframe have been congregating in D.C. as part of the Ensight team. We think they’re planning something big.”

“So what is Ensight?”

“For the past two years, SHIELD has been pulling in specialists that work in long range ballistics,” Wade says, gesturing to the file. “That includes a whole bunch of mean and nasties from my neck of the woods. The good news is that most of them don’t mind sharing information so long as they don’t get un-alived.”

Spiderman tugs out a hand drawn image of a large helicarrier, similar to the one seen in the Battle of New York. “Wade’s...er, friend...says there’s three of these hidden beneath SHIELD headquarters in D.C.”

Bucky thinks about the address he’d pulled for one Steven Grant Rogers on the journey back to the States and sighs. Of course, Stevie would be knee deep in trouble when Bucky found him again.

“They have enough firepower on just one of these helicarriers to level a city--you can only imagine what they’re capable of with three,” the kid continues.

Bucky doesn’t have to imagine. He knows what kind of damage Hydra is capable of with the right weapon. His arm whirs dangerously at his side and he has to force it to relax before he breaks something.

Wade pulls out one of his katanas and tests the edge against his thumb. "Three helicarriers means one for each of us--good thing I hate sharing."

“Sounds like we’re going to D.C.” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the data the two vigilantes had recovered.

“Hell yeah!” Wade crows, “I love road trip fics! We’ll bond over music, fight some bad guys, and probably confess our love for one another by the end of chapter fifteen. Are you gonna need a permission slip, Spidey?”

Bucky prepares himself to set aside his plans to recover Steve’s memories even if he has to tie him to a chair and recount every minute of their lives together. If Hydra intends to attack using Ensight, the priority will have to remain lancing every ounce of their corruption from SHIELD. He can’t risk letting them gain enough power when Steve is still under their influence.

“Hydra’s gonna throw everything they have at us if they find out we’re making a move to stop Ensight. You need to be ready to face their elite units--maybe even St--Captain America,” Bucky says, trying not to flinch at the thought.

Spiderman frowns at him. “Why would Captain America want to fight you? He’d probably be on our side if we explained things.”

He shook his head, regret riding the gesture. “He doesn’t remember me. Whatever happened to him after he went down with the Valkyrie left him without any of the memories of us.”

Something in his tone must hint at the true nature of their relationship because Spiderman looks over at Wade in surprise.

“I thought you and Rogers were just friends.”

Bucky snorts at the thought of what must have been written about their relationship in the years after the war. “I’ve been in love with Steve Rogers since he was a skinny little artist bleeding in every back alley fight he could find.”

Wade shivers excitedly. “You mean you used to let him paint you like one of his French girls? Oh shit, the readers are going to have a field day with this. Maybe they’ll be able to convince the author to up the rating so we can finally see some action. I volunteer as tribute if you need a third--sorry, Spidey, getting trapped between the Winter Soldier and Captain America would be life changing. I betcha that metal arm has all sorts of extra gadgets that would--”

Bucky lets Wade’s excited rant continue without protest as a sudden memory returns to him. A slight smile quirks his lips and Deadpool stops mid-sentence to stare at him in surprise.

“I need to run an errand before we leave,” Bucky says.

__________________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, a brief article in the Times outlines a strange crime at a private collection house in Manhattan. Despite the high grade security system, guards were not able to identify how the thief managed to get into the vault which housed some of the more delicate artifacts from the owner’s World War II collection. A reward has been offered to anyone who might be able to provide any information on the crime or the person responsible.

Only one object was reported missing--an incredibly rare sketchbook that was rumored to contain a series of private sketches by Captain America himself.

Of course, no one really notices or cares about the theft of a sketchbook when the day's headline reads, "SHIELD DIRECTOR FOUND DEAD."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's Memories Suck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO updates in two days?! What a wild world we live in. :)

Steve falls heavily onto his couch with a tired groan.

His head feels like it’s throbbing with every heartbeat. Even the supersoldier serum isn’t enough to cover the effects of too many days without sleep and the constant barrage of information from meeting after meeting at headquarters. 

Since Fury’s death, SHIELD feels more like an anthill that’s been kicked than a secretive government organization. Pierce had acted quickly, rooting out as many of the moles that were responsible for the attack and uncovering a number of compromised agents in the process. Maria Hill, the icy, terrifyingly efficient partner to Fury, had been one of the first to disappear in the wake of Fury’s death and Pierce had been quick to take it as an admission of guilt.

The situation sat oddly in Steve’s mind. Hill and Fury had been utterly focused, utterly committed to the mission of SHIELD during the Battle of New York--he had a hard time accepting the reality that both of them had been involved in a scheme to bring SHIELD down. Hell, there had even been whispers that Hydra was involved in the attack.

He’d been called into Pierce’s office almost immediately after Fury was found and handed a thick file full of information on a man he’d once trusted. 

“The Winter Soldier is active once again, Captain,” Pierce had said with all the gravitas of a man facing an impossible foe. “We won’t be able to stop him without your help.”

Steve’s help apparently had been to analyze and critique every security system and defense strategy in place for SHIELD’s latest project--Project Insight.

From what he’d been told, Insight would allow SHIELD to quickly and effectively halt any attack on the United States and their allies within moments of learning of it. The array of weapons and specialized targeting system seemed to support the possibility. It would mean the slow death of superheroes’ impact on crime, but promised fewer casualties and destruction when evil returned.

Somehow, the thought of a system made to quickly annihilate any threat with extreme prejudice at the touch of a button hadn’t sat well with Steve.

When pressed, the officers in charge of various elements of Ensight were quick to reassure him that there were safeguards in place to prevent abuse and that any defensive maneuvers required Council approval. Steve tries not to think about the fact that the Council’s response to aliens in New York was to nuke the city. He can’t decide if the threat of facing more powerful villains could outweigh the potential devastation of Ensight falling into the wrong hands.

For now, the biggest threat to SHIELD and possibly the world was a man who shouldn’t be alive.

Every inch of Steve’s apartment has slowly been covered with every piece of information he can find about James Buchanon Barnes. That’s not to say he has much beyond copied pages from brief library book descriptions and a few scattered newspaper clippings of various high level assassinations that may or may not belong to the Winter Soldier. Even SHIELD’s files are frustratingly bare about the mystery that is Bucky Barnes.

Even worse, all the research he’s done on Barnes seems to be invading both his conscious and unconscious thoughts. He feels like those pale grey eyes follow him from room to room, pleading for something Steve can’t figure out. He wants to be angry, to find something that will help justify the witchhunt that SHIELD is pushing him towards, but he can’t seem to find the energy for it. Even with all the documents and evidence proving that the Winter Soldier was responsible for the deaths of dozens of innocent people, something deep in Steve’s gut seems to reject the possibility of Barnes being capable of it.

Steve huffs and lifts himself off his couch to prowl into his bedroom to change out of his uniform. He can already tell that he won’t be getting much sleep tonight. Maybe he’ll go for a run and try to burn away the confusing thoughts and uncomfortable churning in his gut. He quickly strips off his uniform and rifles through his dresser for a pair of running shorts and a shirt. 

He turns to retrieve his headphones from his nightstand and pauses midstep.

There, in the center of his bed, was a worn looking leather book. He looks around the room like he could find the person responsible for the object, but even his senses can’t detect anyone else in his apartment and there had been no alert from his supposedly infallible security system either. It was as though a ghost had entered into his home just to leave behind an old book.

Cautiously, Steve steps closer and runs his fingers over the worn cover. He blinks and--

_A crooked smile and calloused hands pressing a small package wrapped in newspaper into his hands._

_Sunlight dappling like liquid gold over tawny skin stretched out over rumpled sheets in silent temptation._

_“What are you staring at, Rogers?”_

You. Always you.

The longing in his gut feels like a wild thing and he sucks in a rough breath. What the hell was that? Whatever caution or hesitancy he felt at the sight of the book is swept away by a wave of emotion that threatens to drown him where he stands. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes like his body is reacting to a memory his mind no longer possesses and he is helpless against the urge to reach out for the book once more.

In his hands, he realizes that the book is actually a journal or a sketchbook of some kind with pages gone delicate and brittle with age. He flips open the first page and frowns down at the neat script carefully written across the blank page.

_Property of Steven Grant Rogers_

His fingers brush over the words, the ache in his chest sinking deeper. For the first time, he wishes his memories weren’t so far out of his reach. The reaction to the strange gift is visceral, consuming. His hands are shaking and he’s helpless against the desire to turn the page and continue to explore this piece of his past.

The sketchbook--and it is a sketchbook now that he can examine it more closely--must have been carefully stored for years in order to preserve the pale grey and black lines of charcoal and pencil. Gently, he turns the page and takes in the first drawing. It’s a simple, quick piece, all brisk lines coming together to form the slope of a muscular back whose owner is laying stretched across a bed on their belly, their face obscured by the pillow their face is buried in aside from a few dark curls. 

Steve frowns at the figure. Everything he had been told about his past had led him to believe Peggy Carter was the great love of his life, but there was no mistaking the longing and love in each dark mark on the page. The perspective of each drawing is too intimate, too knowing to be anything but the viewpoint of a lover. He flips to the next page to find clever hands sketched out in loving detail, complete with a few cuts and bruises along the knuckles like the owner had gotten into more than one back alley brawl.

The Steve from the past was clearly a talented artist, interspersing detailed figure studies of everything from neighborhood stray cats to a tired looking woman in a nurse’s uniform. His fingers linger over the curve of her jaw for a long moment before he realizes there are tears falling unchecked down his cheeks. He forces himself to keep looking through the sketches to avoid delving into the emotions each pictures seems to draw out from somewhere deep within him.

But it’s obvious that the man from the first page is past Steve’s favorite subject. There are pages dedicated to each of part of him--figure studies of work-roughened hands, full lips quirked into a teasing smile, a muscular torso that still manages to make Steve feel a little breathless. He pours over each image until they feel like they’re burned into his head like the sweetest kind of torment. He wants to know who it was that won his past self’s heart so completely. Who had he loved so deeply that the wanting of him seemed to bleed out of every line of his sketches?

Then he turns a page and finds himself staring down in shock at the first image of the mystery man’s face and feels his stomach lurch in horrified understanding.

There, looking up at him with a wicked grin that speaks of long nights of sin, is the Winter Soldier. James Buchanon Barnes.

Steve feels himself go cold. He forces himself to suck in a lungful of air and release it even as his mind begins to connect the dots to a truly horrifying narrative. 

Pierce had said that Barnes and Steve’s past self had been close, best friends even, and it was obvious now that their relationship had gone far deeper than that. His eidetic memory supplies him with the date of when he joined Erskine’s project and a quick glance at his notes confirms that their meeting took place the night before Bucky had left for Europe. Clearly his volunteering for the supersoldier program had had some personal benefits for Steve--after all, it meant he was able to reunite with his lover at Azzano.

He thinks about the long list of Howling Commando missions led by Steve with his trust sergeant at his side. Bucky had been the one tasked with watching Steve’s back each time they scraped out another one of Hydra’s bunkers. He’d trusted Barnes with that task with the same wide-eyed innocence that must have allowed him to overlook the evidence of Bucky’s allegiance to the very organization they were tasked to destroy. Barnes had fooled them all. Hell, Peggy Carter had even included Barnes as an honorary member of SHIELD when she’d established it.

Had the Steve of the past ever realized the monster lurking so close by, sharing his bed, and smiling that wicked smile at him?

_“That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to walk away from a fight. I'm following him.”_

The voice from his past was the cruelest sort of reminder that Steve Rogers had fallen for one of the oldest cons in the book. He’d believed it when a man told him he loved him. Because it had to be love that tied Steve Rogers to Bucky Barnes. There was no other explanation for the meticulous way Steve had drawn and redrawn every feature like he couldn’t bear to forget a single inch of tawny skin or the complicated ripple of muscle over bone.

Only to be betrayed by the man he’d trusted the most.

Steve is yanked out of his dark thoughts by the sound of his phone ringing in the living room. For a long moment, he considers just letting it ring through, but he knows that decision would only lead to the ‘undercover’ agent in his building rushing into his home with weak excuses and eyes that would take in every inch of the data he’d been accumulating. Then he’d be forced to explain his obsession to Pierce--or worse, Natasha.

With one last look at the sketchbook, Steve gets to his feet and padded over to the living room to retrieve his phone. He doesn’t think about the way leaving it behind makes his fingers twitch.

“Rogers,” he growls.

Rumlow’s voice is far too amused for Steve’s fraying nerves. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“What do you want, Rumlow?”

“We’re getting called in,” Rumlow says, abruptly turning businesslike. “Pierce’s orders.”

Steve sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face and trying not to think about how tired he was. “What happened now?”

“The Project start date has been moved up. We’re going to be running point on security.”

Shit. The only reason Steve could think of for starting the project early was another security threat. Pierce had been on edge ever since the news came in about Fury’s death and Steve didn’t blame them. Whoever killed the director--Winter Soldier or not--had SHIELD on high alert waiting for the next attack.

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

Rumlow cut in before Steve could hang up. “And this time, Rogers, the Winter Soldier isn’t walking away.”

Steve’s eyes dart over to where the sketchbook is still sitting on his bed, open to the page of a forgotten lover’s face.

“He won’t.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Prepares for an Assault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is a little short, but I promise the next chapters will be action packed and feature more of Steve and Bucky together again.
> 
> Stay tuned!

Leaving Brooklyn for D.C. is surprisingly easy.

All it takes is Spiderman-- “I guess you can call me Peter since we’re planning to take down an evil empire together” -- borrowing his aunt’s car and a long argument with Wade about an appropriate disguise and they’re on their way.

“I still don’t see why I couldn’t wear my mask,” Wade complains from the front seat. “It totally blends!”

“Maybe if we were going to a fetish convention,” Bucky grumbles and finds both vigilantes turning to stare at him in surprise. It makes him scowl. “What?”

“How do you know about fetish conventions?” Peter asks, “Aren’t you like a hundred years old?”

Wade looks like he’s about to self combust. “Ohmygod, this is the best day of my life!” he squeals, nearly driving off the road to continue looking at Bucky from over his Hello Kitty surgical mask. “So you and Captain America are, like, into the BDSM scene? Tell me, have you ever--”

Whatever he might have asked was cut off by Peter’s hand flying up to cover his mouth. The brunette gives him a warning look which seems to settle him down marginally.

“I’ve been in the modern world for decades now,” Bucky explains before Wade can go off on another tangent. “And it’s not like kinky sex was invented in the 70s.”

Wade makes a muffled noise, but Spiderman only gives him a fierce look. “We are _not_ discussing Captain America’s sex life in this car.”

There’s a pause.

“What about outside of the car?”

___________________________________________________

By the time they reach D.C., Bucky feels like he’s ready to jump out of his skin with nerves. Busy streets and crowds intermingled with memories of missions from his days with Hydra. A blonde woman talking on her phone becomes a woman standing alone in an office, completely oblivious to the crosshairs between her shoulders. The soft ticking indicating the countdown clock of a small bomb placed just out of sight in a government office.

He shakes his head and forces himself to think about the challenge at hand.

The idea of seeing Steve again feels like the promise of a fix after a long dry spell and he can’t help but imagine if the journal had been enough to jog Steve’s spotty memories. He grins out the window at the thought of what Steve’s face must have looked like when he started to look through their more racy pictures. He knows the punk will be too stubborn to believe the reality of their relationship based on a few pictures, but maybe--if he’s lucky--it will get him to start questioning the neat little lies Hydra must be feeding him.

Whether or not it would happen quickly enough to stop the fight brewing between them is another story.

He knows Pierce will be keeping Steve close and surrounded by agents loyal to him. With Fury gone, there wouldn’t be anyone in a position to question his authority at SHIELD. It’s not hard for Bucky to conjure up memories of what Pierce was willing to do to ensure he remained in power. The last thing he needed was for the new Director to consider Steve a threat when Steve wasn’t able to even remember who he truly was.

For now, he would have to be patient. He could plant the seeds of doubt in Hydra’s carefully built web of lies and wait for Steve’s stubborn mistrust of authority figures to culminate in something he could use to prove that what he was saying was the truth.

It was easier said than done.

Just hours after arriving in D.C., Bucky leaves Peter and Wade to their own devices--which seems to be bickering over what kind of Mexican food to ear--and uses the metro to reach SHIELD headquarters. He’s wearing a simple long-sleeved t shirt and jeans with a jacket that manages to hide most of the weapons he was carrying so he can blend in with the crowds of tourists and curiosity seekers. More than one person around him pauses long enough to take selfies with their phones and chatter excitedly about the chance to see Captain America in the flesh like Steve was some kind of zoo animal. They quickly move out of range when Bucky releases a low growl at the thought.

It attracts too much attention, he knows, this bone deep deserve to find and protect Steve. He forces himself to keep moving, to avoid making eye contact with any of the sharp eyed guards lingering near the entrance. If Pierce or any member of Hydra confirmed his identity on the Lemurian Star, they would be prepared for the Winter Soldier to make a move against SHIELD. 

He knew too much to be allowed to remain free.

Even without the threat of the Fist of Hydra’s revenge, Bucky can see the nervous energy lingering in the air around several of the agents. It makes it easy to tell which ones are Hydra and which remain oblivious to the threat in their midst. The Hydra agents were edgy, hands on their weapons and eyes darting around the crowd for threats. A bright red sign posted outside warned that SHIELD had cancelled tours to the public for the week and Bucky sees more than one group of tourists turn away in disgust.

So much for slipping in unnoticed with a crowd.

Bucky glances down at the USB in his palm, contemplating his options. The bug Peter designed has to be plugged into a SHIELD computer in order to access the details of Project Insight. Without it, they can’t confirm when the mission will launch or even what their targets are. His imagination provides a number of potential victims, but with only the three of them running defense, there’s no way they can cover them all alone.

It’s while he is attempting to find another way into the building, he sees her.

Dark hair, sunglasses perched high above a stern jaw and lips pursed in concentration, and a nondescript outfit that would march any other jogger on their morning route. The difference is that despite her efforts to blend, there’s no way to hide the sharp intelligence in her eyes or the way she manages to make every plain clothes agent and guard in one sweep of her eyes.

Bucky moves closer, keeping in her blindspot as she makes a point of stretching before taking off at a decent clip around the building towards the waterfront.

Exactly like he would have done.

Following her without drawing attention is a little more difficult once she starts running, but Bucky wasn’t a world renowned assassin for nothing. He manages to keep up with her across two blocks and when she finally cuts into an alley where a simple four door sedan is parked. He follows at a more sedate pace, pulling out his phone to snap a picture of her license plate and check for any street cameras. He turns down the alley and--

Stares directly into the barrel of a pistol.

He freezes, arm whirring dangerously even as he breathes through the instinctive urge to rip, hurt, _kill_. Hard brown eyes stare into a pair slate grey fighting to stay present and in control against years of training and he knows the exact moment she recognizes him.

“Soldier.” Her voice is flat, matter of fact, and Bucky fights the wild urge to smile at her bravery in spite of the way her hand trembles with nerves.

Bucky’s smile is a little lopsided. “Not anymore,” he looks her over quickly, “And you’re Agent Maria Hill.”

She narrows her eyes at him, scanning the alley around him for any other attackers. Not that he would need the help.

“Why are you following me?”

“Saw you casing SHIELD headquarters. I thought we might be going after the same thing--what with us being fugitives an’ all,” he shrugs and enjoys the way his drawl speaks to a place he’d once called home. His fingers are twitching for one of the weapons tucked beneath his clothes, but he resists. “Although I’d really appreciate if you’d put that gun down.”

“I’m not going to help Hydra infiltrate SHIELD.”

“Too late for that, ma’am.”

Hill glares at him, both of them going still when a group of teenagers pass nearby and wait until the noise of their chatter dies before returning her attention to Bucky. “Explain.”

“You heard of Project Insight?” 

The answer is obvious in the way her face pales and she shifts her hold on her weapon. “That’s meant to be classified. How do you know about it?”

Bucky takes a deep breath and nods toward her car. “Let’s take a ride.”

Hill stares at him for a beat before she nods decisively and tucks her weapon back into the holster under her arm. “Sounds like we have a lot to discuss.”

_______________________________________________

That night, Bucky finds himself sitting on the rooftop outside of a nondescript apartment building, watching a shadow pace back and forth in the bedroom.

He smiles faintly, thinking of what tomorrow will bring.

“Not long now, Stevie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for spelling 'Insight' differently a few chapters ago--I plan to go back and edit it for continuity. I'll blame on sleep deprivation thanks to a new baby.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and thank you to everyone who takes the time to leave me a new comment! You're wonderful!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Invasion Begins

Steve makes his way down the hallway nursing a headache that shouldn’t exist with the serum in his veins. Apparently back to back to back security briefings were enough to conquer even the most well-designed supersoldiers.

Ever since Pierce confirmed that the Winter Soldier was in D.C. and--thanks to a blurry shot from an exterior camera--scouting SHIELD headquarters, the whole building had been subjected to an extreme number of prevention plans. Steve had been asked to review nearly every security measure they used based on his past self’s strategy skills. Future Steve had been less than excited to be desk-bound for hours and hours of monotonous study. 

The level of panic in the older director’s behavior made Steve edgy and uncomfortable. Was the Soldier truly that much of a threat to SHIELD? If he was so hell bent on destroying them, why hadn’t he killed any of the STRIKE team on the Lemurian Star? He’d certainly had enough chances to kill Steve before giving away his presence.

It didn’t help that that damned sketchbook was slowly making him lose his mind.

Steve had considered turning it in to one of his supervisors at least a dozen times--had tossed it in the trash more than once--but, somehow, always ended up sitting on his couch with the frail pages held delicately in his hands. Unlike the pictures and books given to him by his army of therapists, this taste of his past felt precious. Important. He could lose hours memorizing the curve of a cheek, the dark line of charcoal, or the affection and love shining from each page. 

It consumed his thoughts each time the room went quiet or a speaker paused in an analysis of the Winter Soldier’s threat and he was left staring at the gaunt face on their screens. The Soldier looked like a ghost of the smiling boy in the sketchbook. There were shadows in his eyes that hadn’t existed when the Steve of the past had painstakingly rendered him to paper. Steve wonders more often than not about the sort of horrors that had to have taken place to twist that sweet boy into a man who could betray his best friend and assassinate so many innocents. 

Those assassinations and tales of violence haven’t stopped him from waking up, hard and aching, every night since he found the sketchbook--one hand outstretched in an attempt to find a warm body that was no longer at his side.

How can he miss something he’s sure he’s never had?

Stepping into the elevator, Steve holds open the door with one hand long enough to allow Rumlow and Rollins to join him before pushing the button for one of the ground levels. Both men give him a nod of thanks and they fall into the stilted, awkward silence that comes with riding in an elevator with someone you don’t really want to talk to. 

Rumlow shifts the metal container in his hands and repositions a pair of heavy cuffs ucked under one arm, making Steve frown.

“What are those for?” he asks, trying for casual and failing.

“Oh, these?” Rumlow feigns innocent, but Steve doesn’t miss the way he looks over at Rollins. It makes a prickle of unease run down Steve’s back. “Pierce wants us to have them on hand in case the Soldier can be recovered.”

“Recovered? Do they think he might be working with someone?” 

The implications of the Winter Soldier being part of a larger unit are alarming enough that Steve considers returning to the planning room he’d just left to reevaluate the defensive strategies he’d laid out. 

Rumlow just barks out a laugh, his rugged features twisting in cruel humor. “The Soldier? There’s no way he could manage anything on his own. He needs someone holding his leash to make him bite.”

Rollins chuckles like it’s a joke and Steve can feel nausea rising in his gut along with a sinking kind of dread. They spoke like they knew the Soldier, knew how he operated and how he took orders. It only adds to the unvoiced suspicions that circle his mind when the night’s too quiet. 

He shouldn’t have this sort of reaction to a stranger. He thinks back to the dossier he’d been given outlining the Soldier’s relations to Hydra and frowns. What if--

Steve’s train of thought is halted when the elevator’s speaker system blares out a shrill alarm and the lights of the cabin begin to flash red.

“Intruder alert,” a woman’s pleasant voice intones, “All personnel must prepare for lockdown procedures. STRIKE teams please assemble in Sublevel A.”

The message continues to repeat even as the elevator slows and lets them out near the launch bay for the quinjets. They gleam in rows of gunmetal grey in the sunlight, ready and waiting for the signal to approach the helicarriers. Steve shifts the shield on his back in a familiar check before looking at the other two men. “Get your gear,” he says, pushing his suspicions to the back of his mind. “I’ll meet you there. See if you can gather the rest of the team.”

Rumlow snaps him a salute and turns on his heel to jog down the hallway with Rollins on his heels. 

There’s a series of short blasts on the intercom and Steve knows Pierce must have given the signal for the three helicarriers to launch in the face of the threat within their building. Steve knows because it was the plan he’d come up with in one of the dozens of meetings to discuss potential threats. In the air, the threats would be limited to anyone who could manage to sneak on board or someone with access to air support.

He pulls out his phone while the ground rumbles with the roar of engines lifting the massive machines out of the launch bays. Natasha’s number is one of four programed into his phone so it’s easy to dial.

She answers before the first ring is complete. “Rogers. Where are you?”

“Ground level near the flight deck,” he grunts. “What’s the play here? You think it’s really him?”

There’s a brief pause that’s answer enough.

Steve glances around him before he moves out of the main thoroughfare. “Something’s off here.”

“Too many secrets,” Natasha agrees quietly, “even for me.”

“Keep an eye on Rumlow. I’ll see what I can find out,” he orders and she barely gives a grunt of agreement before ending the call.

All around him SHIELD agents rush quickly to their assigned stations in the kind of controlled chaos that the military breeds. They flow around him like he’s a rock in the middle of a dark suited stream. Part of him wishes that he could disappear into that kind of mindless concentration, but all he can think about is that the Winter Soldier is _here._

 _Bucky_ is here.

Steve doesn’t want to think about the way his body lights up like he can sense the other man’s presence. Barnes betrayed him. He betrayed all of them. Steve repeats the facts like a mantra. Regardless of what his body and missing memories might think, Barnes chose Hydra over Steve and that’s all that mattered now.

With that in mind, Steve summons up a mental map of the SHIELD base. If the Soldier managed to reach the sublevels, he must be trying to retrieve one of the weapons Fury had hidden away down below. The idea of the Soldier being clumsy enough to set off the security system sits oddly in Steve’s mind. Everything he knew about the assassin proved that he was more than capable of sneaking in and out of even the most secure buildings without anyone being the wiser. This felt clumsy, awkward. 

Added to the fact that the Winter Soldier hadn’t bothered with any fancy weapons on the ship makes Steve hesitate to follow the flow of agents and personnel heading to the lower levels. He catches sight of Rumlow’s broad shoulders for a moment before he disappears in the direction of the armory and frowns. He can’t shake the feeling that ‘his’ STRIKE team was working under multiple directives.

He starts toward Rumlow, then hesitates when he hears a soft sound that’s out of place in the hustle of defensive maneuvers. A short, sharp yelp of alarm that no one else seems to hear. Steve stands still, straining his ears for another hint as to where the cry had come from.

There. Another cry of dismay before the unmistakable sound of an engine starting.

Steve turns, moving against the tide of people at a fast clip towards the flight deck. None of the quinjets should be moving now, he tells himself to explain his growing unease. Their pilots should all be in their hangers, ensuring that none of the quinjets can be pirated by any attackers. He increases his speed at the unmistakable sound of an engine preparing for takeoff.

By the time he reaches the flight deck, he’s flat out running, but it’s still not fast enough to do more than watch the first quinjet leave the ground and head in the direction of the helicarriers just reaching their cruising altitudes. Steve doesn’t need to see the unconscious bodies of two pilots laid out on the ground to know the security breach was just a ruse. He swears viciously, slowing his sprint to glare in the direction of the jet. He thinks longingly of the radio waiting for him with the rest of his tactical gear in the armory.

So he grabs his phone and calls Natasha once more. “Nat,” he says as soon as she picks up. “I’ve got eyes on hostiles en route to the helicarrier--at least one, maybe more. I--”

Steve cuts off mid word when he hears another quinjet fire up. He turns in time to see the jet at the far edge of the runway slowly trundle forward in preparation for takeoff. Grabbing his shield, he rushes forward, mind scrambling for a way to stop the ship without killing the pilot. They need to find out more about Hydra’s plots if they’re ever going to destroy the organization for good.

“There’s another ship heading up,” he tells her briskly, barely out of breath despite the mixture of adrenaline and irritation thrumming through his body. “I need to get on that helicarrier.”

“I’ve got someone heading your way--try not to break him.” She hangs up before he can ask more and Steve returns his focus to the stolen jet.

There’s a flash of movement in the cockpit as it turns to face him and he hears the engines roar to life. He twists his body in preparation for throwing the shield at the fan blades, then freezes.

There, sitting behind the glass cockpit with a look of such wide eyed fear and desperation, is the Winter Soldier.

They stare at each other for a minute. An eternity. A lifetime. Faint memories overlap with the harsher reality that whatever they might have been before the war, they were now enemies. This conflict would only end when one of them was stopped.

Steve’s grip tightens on his weapon and he sees the moment when Bucky pushes away whatever feelings exist between them in favor of completing his mission. The quinjet darts forward, the gust of air enough to throw off the trajectory of a shield released far too late to do any damage. It dents the side of the ship and falls with a clang to the concrete and leaves him staring up at the retreating shape of the quinjet as it made its way to the vulnerable helicarriers. 

Before Steve can retrieve it and attempt another attack, there’s a ripple of violent force and he’s thrown to the ground in the wake of a series of explosions. He rolls, bringing the shield over his head instinctively to protect himself from the flames and debris raining down from the timed explosions that wiped out the entire fleet of quinjets. The machines are little more than dark skeletons backlit by flames now. So much for rallying STRIKE to the helicarriers.

He yanks his shield back into its holster, cursing himself for a damned fool, just in time for another rush of hot air to blow through his hair and strong hands latch onto his shield harness. 

“On your left, Cap,” a familiar voice says and Steve tilts his head to find Sam Wilson’s gap tooth grin staring back at him from beneath a pair of red goggles. 

He gapes, taking in the wide metal wings and the sounds of the small engine that sends them careening through the air. The wind tugs at his hair and face, reminding him that he never grabbed his cowl from the armory. This was the last thing he’d expected when Natasha had mentioned a lift for him and he can’t help wondering how the spy managed to buddy up with one of the few friends he’d made in the modern world. Sam moves through the air as easily as a bird and Steve can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of his life.

“Pararescue, huh?” he asks, thinking back to the brief description of Sam’s military background from the few times they’d hung out. “Must have changed a lot since my day.”

Sam laughs, bright and more relaxed than Steve has ever seen him. “I guess you might call me a specialist.” He sends them soaring over the side of the helicarrier where the quinjet carrying the Winter Soldier had landed. The cockpit stands open and empty when Sam drops Steve onto the deck and lands lightly beside him. “That your guy’s ride?”

“He’s not my guy,” Steve says absently and ignores the way his stomach twists in silent rejection of those words. “It looks like the Soldier recruited a team to bring down Insight. There’s at least one more hostile on one of the other carriers.”

“You know what they’re planning to do?”

“If the bombs they set on the quinjets are any indication, they may be trying to bring them down by force.”

Sam whistles. “Helicarriers this big could wipe out a city block easily in a crash--not to mention the crews wouldn’t survive.” He glances back at Steve, looking every inch a soldier. “So what’s the plan, Cap?”

Steve considers the situation briefly before gesturing back to SHIELD headquarters. “Pick up Natasha and see about containing the threats to the other carriers.” He pulls his shield free and starts walking toward the empty jet and the entrance to the helicarrier beyond it. “I’ll take care of the Soldier.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Project Insight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright y'all, it's finally happening. This is the scene I imagined when I first started writing this fic. I hope it is everything you were hoping for.

__Twenty Hours Earlier__

“We are _not_ about to _poison_ Captain America!”

Hill and Fury don’t look impressed with Bucky’s barely restrained roar, just pass a look quickly between themselves that Bucky swears doesn’t make him want to reach for a gun and take his chances on his own. Teaming up with the man responsible for allowing Steve to fall under Hydra’s control is pretty low on his list of preferences, but he needs the man’s knowledge of SHIELD to make this crazy scheme work.

“Sedation isn’t poison, Barnes,” Hill finally says with the air of someone explaining something she shouldn’t have to. “And we can’t take down Project Insight with only the four of us.”

It’s obvious that Fury won’t be coming with them thanks to the bullet injuries he’s still nursing, but he doesn’t look pleased at the reminder.

“What about Romanov?” Bucky asks. “I thought you said she was on your side.” 

There’s a bleat of relief in his heart at the thought that he won’t be required to destroy the girl from his memories. They aren’t as strong as the ones about Steve, but they’re enough to make him dread the thought of halting that quicksilver smile and mischief that seems to always lurk behind her eyes.

_“Are you leaving me again, Yasha?”_

Bucky shakes away the memory in time for Fury to make a sweeping gesture. “Romanov doesn’t know I’m still alive or that Pierce tried to put a hit out on me. She was too embedded for us to get a message to her and I need her close to Rogers in case he needs to be handled.”

“No wonder he isn’t functioning!” Bucky growls irritably, “All any of you care about is manipulating him into being your weapon!”

“We’ve done everything we could to get Roger’s memories back, but until that happens, he’s a wild card that Hydra took advantage of first. We can’t risk him being used against us.”

Bucky sucks in a breath to keep arguing but stops at the sound of a nervous voice. 

“What about a distraction?” Peter asks, identity safely hidden behind his mask and partially hidden behind Deadpool’s bulk. As soon as they’d stepped into the concrete bunker that was Fury’s hideout, the merc had gone tense and silent in a way that felt painfully odd. And dangerous. Clearly he didn’t trust Fury anymore than Bucky did not to stab them in the back.

“What kind of distraction?” Hill watches the newcomer with a stoic expression that Bucky isn’t completely unsure is her only expression.

“Uh, well, Hydra will be focused on Insight, right? They expect an attack from us on that day--either from the Soldier or from Fury if they’ve figured out he’s alive,” Spiderman starts and gains confidence when they let him continue. “So let’s make it look like we tripped the alarms.” He pauses to point to the blue prints spread over the table.

Bucky gives the kid an approving smile. “If we attack the sublevels, it should pull most of the active agents away from the flight decks.” He looks over the blueprints again and nods as the idea forms.

“It’s close enough to be a potential threat to Insight, but far enough away that a team of us could still make our way onto the helicarriers to deposit the chip that will shut them down. It’ll look like we’re trying to use some of the experimental tech to help stop them. All we need to do is trip the security system in the control room to read as a break in--maybe even plant some footage of the Winter Soldier moving around. While STRIKE’s busy hunting a ghost, we can be focused on the carriers.”

There’s a slight hint of approval in Hill’s voice when she looks over the papers for a long moment before nodding. “I can handle the security system and give them something to chase down.”

“That still won’t be enough if Rogers gets involved,” Fury says mulishly, his one eye glaring at Bucky.

Bucky glares back. “Leave Steve to me.”

_______________________________________________________

__Day of Project Insight Launch__

The plan is going perfectly.

Between Maria’s knowledge of SHIELD’s headquarters, Fury’s backdoor codes, and Spiderman and Bucky’s ability to sneak past guards without raising suspicion, they’re doing well. Deadpool even manages to get down to the sublevels before he raises the alarm and--judging from the gleeful mixture of banter and pained grunts--does an admirable job drawing all of SHIELD’s attention to him. Dressing the man in one of Bucky’s tactical suits with the face mask had been a nice touch to ensure Hydra took the bait. Even if he’d complained bitterly about losing his iconic suit.

While Deadpool kept the guards busy, Bucky and Peter race to the flight deck and into the quinjet located farthest away from the building. Bucky gets to work prepping it for takeoff and sorting through the various security measures put in place to prevent someone from, say, stealing a quinjet and using it to illegally board a helicarrier, while Peter webs himself around the other jets, strapping a series of small explosives to their undercarriage.

When they’d started planning this mission, Peter had surprised all of them by vehemently refusing to be a part of any plan that relied on killing anyone for its success. He’d eventually (read: begrudgingly), agreed to the death of Hydra agents on the grounds that they were more than willing to kill innocents when given the chance, but he refused to allow them to attack any SHIELD agent without knowing what their allegiance was without a doubt. 

Which was why they are currently sneaking around a damn air field below massive machines built to murder thousands. 

(Bucky has enough blood on his hands that he doesn’t mind avoiding more--so long as Hydra is stopped--but Wade is a much harder sell. “But Spidey, Bea and Arthur _need_ some play time!”)

Peter jogs up the gangplank just as Bucky finishes starting up the engine and setting the autopilot to land on the flight deck of the first helicarrier. He looks over the younger man a little anxiously.

“You remember what to do, kid?”

Beneath the mask, Bucky can practically feel Peter’s eyes rolling. “Get to the control room, plant the chip, and don’t get caught.”

Bucky nods. “We’ll meet on the third ship once the first two are disabled and finish it. If one of us is caught, the other completes the mission without them.”

He knows better than to think he’d ever let the kid get taken by Hydra without putting up a fight, but Peter doesn’t need to know that.

“Got it.” 

Spiderman moves past him to the cockpit and Bucky claps him on the shoulder one last time before moving out the back of the ship. They don’t have much time before SHIELD wises up to their plot and they need to make every minute count. So Bucky heads in the direction of the only other quinjet without one of the bombs strapped to it and begins the next phase of their plan.

Their plan goes perfectly--until the one force Bucky never has managed to contain arrives. 

Steve Rogers. 

He appears like some ghostly mirage on the flight deck--exactly where he could do the most damage to their chances at stopping Hydra’s plot. Bucky knows he should be irritated or at the very least worried about how he could keep Steve from ruining their plan, but it’s all he can do not to grin at him when their eyes meet.

Steve’s back in the iconic suit similar to the one he’d worn during the war and Bucky’s mouth goes dry looking over the muscles he’d once spent hours tracing and retracing like his fingers were the charcoal for one of Steve’s old sketchbooks.

_“Do you like it, Bucky? I know it’s a little gaudy but--”_

_“Christ, Stevie. How am I supposed to walk around with you looking like that?”_

Bucky’s moment of hesitation is forced to break abruptly when he sees Steve’s gaze harden in the familiar expression that signaled an attack. He barely manages to pull the quinjet’s propellers up quick enough to throw off the shield’s trajectory and hears it clang menacingly over the hull. There’s only a few seconds to prepare for another attack, but before Steve can do more damage the world around them goes bright red with a roiling heat. Bucky hesitates long enough to see Steve duck for cover against the explosions before he angles the quinjet towards his targeted carrier and shoots into the sky.

____________________________________________

Compared to the mess on the flight deck, reaching the control hub of the carrier is a breeze.

He only sees a few guards in the hallways and is able to easily subdue them. The lack of numbers isn’t incredibly shocking--he doubted Hydra would risk the wrong person beginning to suspect the truth behind their plans. Killing thousands was enough to make even the most loyal SHIELD personnel hesitate.

The control room is located at the far end of the ship and illuminated by a wide bank of windows that allows him to see the Potomac far below and the edge of one of the other carriers. Bucky makes his way toward the central powerbank that Hill had described for him quickly. He knows it’s only a matter of time before Steve finds a way up to the carrier and he still needs to rendezvous with Peter before then.

“Carrier one is locked in,” Peter’s voice whispers cheerfully in his ear and Bucky can barely make out the sound of the wind through the fabric of Peter’s mask. “Anyone heard from Pool?”

There’s a gleeful cackle and Bucky hears the sound of a man screaming in pain before Deadpool answers. “Still alive and kicking, Spidey! I’ll meet you at the last carrier once I finish un-aliving a few more of these mother--”

_“No killing, Wade.”_

Bucky tunes out Deadpool’s dramatic groan of dismay and crosses to the control panel, scanning for the slot to place the chip Hill had created for them. He’s so focused on the panel that he doesn’t notice he isn’t alone until he hears the sound of the shield cutting through the air next to his head.

He jerks away so the blow that would have knocked him unconscious just rakes across his jaw and spins around in time to see catch the ricochet neatly and square up in preparation for a fight. Bucky swallows, resisting the urge to reach for his gun and hating the way Steve’s eyes track his movements warily.

“You don’t have to do this, Steve,” he says quickly, trying not to sound like he’s pleading. “We aren’t enemies.”

The next attack is a brutal display of the speed, agility, and strength Steve had always carefully monitored in his fights. Even with his serum-enhanced abilities, it’s all Bucky can do to block the savage haymaker aimed at his skull and grunt into the knee that comes up sharply against his stomach. He coughs raggedly, slamming his elbow up to block the next hit and pivoting to kick Steve back enough to give him the space he needs to regroup.

Only Steve seems to have anticipated the move because it’s barely a second before he’s lunging forward once more with deadly intent. He doesn’t bother with the shield in such close quarters, content to complete his mission using his fists. Bucky, for his part, doesn’t reach for any of the countless weapons on his body either, loathe to be responsible for any damage against the man he’d loved.

In his ear, the microphone crackles irritably after another jarring hit to his skull. “Bucky? Where are you?” Peter’s voice asks.

Bucky grunts again, noting that Steve’s eyes flick towards his microphone in a subtle hint that he was close enough to hear the conversation. The thought of what Hydra might do to someone like Peter gives him enough strength to twist in Steve’s grip and use his left arm to land a blow that sends Steve to his knees, gasping like he had when they were children.

It takes everything in Bucky to turn away from him and sprint back to the control panel. Before he can plug the chip into the slot, a strong hand yanks his ankle hard enough to slam him into the ground. That quickly, Steve’s on top of him, grappling to control his arms and keep him from fighting back.

There’s a strange moment where the sensation of the heavy weight of the body above him is overlapped with a sensory memory from before. Only instead of pressing kisses to the jut of his collar bone, there’s another ringing blow against his skull. 

He bucks hard against narrow hips and glares up at the face of the man who he sacrificed everything to protect. His chest feels hollow with the open animosity he sees reflected there.

“Please, Steve,” he tries again, “you have to believe me--”

“Why should I believe you?” Steve hisses, pressing his weight against Bucky’s wrists until the bones creak in warning. “You _betrayed_ me. You lied about everything. Were you ever even my friend?”

Bucky stares at him in shock, mouth opening and closing wordlessly at the furious twist of Steve’s lips. “Wha--what are you talking about? I would never--”

“ _Don’t. Lie._ ” There’s enough violence in the command that Bucky falls silent and Steve’s expression darkens even further. His chest is heaving like he can barely control the furious rage running through his veins. “They told me about you. About how you used me to feed information to Hydra. How you pretended to die so your cover wouldn’t be blown. Tell me, was fucking me part of you mission or was that an added bonus?”

Bucky’s temper flares at the lies. “I didn’t betray you! I would _never _! I _loved_ you, Steve.”__

__The blow is quick enough that Bucky’s ears are ringing before he can even register the hit._ _

__“I said don’t lie to me.”_ _

__He spits out a breath and freezes when he hears Hill speaking in his ear. “Carrier 1 and 3 are confirmed locked, firing in thirty seconds. Barnes, what’s your status?”_ _

__Steve’s eyes narrow and, before he can open his mouth, Bucky swallows the regret and pain and manages to roll out from under the other soldier. He slams his fist into Steve’s side hard enough to rattle his ribs and gets to his feet. He rushes towards the console, one hand fumbling for the chip in his belt._ _

__He barely manages to slam the chip into place before a large body slams into him and they roll hard off the metal walkway and onto the viewing panels below. Any hesitation Steve might have felt before is gone now and his tactics shift from subduing to a focused effort to bring Bucky to his knees. The only thing keeping Bucky from slipping into unconsciousness with the help of one of the blows to the head is the knowledge that it’s only a matter of seconds before this helicarrier blows and Steve doesn’t know it._ _

__“Steve,” he says a little desperately, “you know me. You know I would never hurt you.”_ _

__“You work for Hydra!” Steve snarls and lands an elbow to his solar plexus that leaves him wheezing. “They showed me all the people you murdered. You’re the Winter Soldier, not some hero.”_ _

__The words sting worse than any of the blows and Bucky stumbles under the weight of it. He knew he was a monster. He didn’t deserve Steve anymore. There was no happy ending for the Winter Soldier--only the inevitable bullet to the brain that would end his reign of terror._ _

__But he refused to leave Steve to fall into Hydra’s clutches too._ _

__“Barnes, are you clear?” Hill presses. “We can’t wait any longer.”_ _

__Bucky stumbles back, trying to avoid another flurry of attacks. “Blow it.”_ _

__“Barnes, you aren’t out of the carrier. You’ll--”_ _

__

__“I know!” he growls, “It doesn’t matter. Bring them down.”_ _

__There’s a pause before the line cuts out and Bucky feels the weight of the decision hang like a noose around his neck. Steve circles hm and Bucky holds his hands out in a placating gesture._ _

__“You need to get off the carrier, Stevie,” he pleads. “I know you don’t trust me but--God, I wish I had time to tell you everything--the carriers aren’t what they seem. Hydra is in SHIELD and they’re going to use the carrier’s to kill anyone who could stand against them.”_ _

__Steve hesitates, mouth opening to question but the sound is cut off by the shriek of metal as countless rounds slam into the side of the carrier. The floor lurches violently and it’s all they can do to keep their feet. The viewing panel windows burst in a spray of shattered glass and more than one of the support beams buckle under the weight of the damaged ship._ _

__A massive shard of metal rips free from the ceiling, directly over Steve’s crouched body. Bucky doesn’t think, just lunges forward to shove the other man out of the way and gasping as an edge slices through his side before the piece falls into the river below. Already he can feel the ship losing altitude and he knows it won’t be long before they join it._ _

__None of that matters though. Not when Steve is still in danger._ _

__Bucky forces himself to his feet despite the unsteady floor and moves closer to Steve. “Are you alright?” he asks anxiously and Steve frowns at him._ _

__The sound of the gunshot is loud fell over the sound of shrieking metal and shattering glass. He sees Steve flinch in surprise, but it’s Bucky that staggers. They both stare down in shock at the red seeping out of the hole in his chest. Steve whirls in time to see Rumlow raise his gun again from where he stands in the doorway to the floor, but the shield cuts through the air before he can complete the gesture._ _

__Bucky stumbles, hand going instinctively to the wound despite the voice in his head whispering that it’s already too late for that. Beside him, the wind tugs at his hair and clothing, beckoning him towards another fall._ _

__Only this time Hydra won’t be waiting to dig him out of the icy dark._ _

__“—n’t move! I’ll call for medical!” Steve shouts and Bucky turns his head to watch his friend, his lover, start to pick his way closer. The blonde was forced to balance on the thin beam that once supported a glass panel and crawl over another twisted piece of metal._ _

__Bucky’s vision wobbles and he goes down on one knee, hands failing to find their grip with the slick blood coating them. He lists, beginning to fall, before a strong arm grabs his hand and for the second time of his life, Bucky finds himself staring into Steve’s eyes as he hangs over an abyss._ _

__Steve’s eyes are wild on his face, confusion sitting oddly on features made for determination. There’s blood splattered across one cheek and the beginnings of a shiner on his left eye from where Bucky managed to clip him. He’s backlit by the fire and shadow of the helicarrier’s failing engines and irreparable damage. Somehow, despite his apparent hatred for the Winter Soldier, he’d managed to throw his body across the beam quickly enough to brace both their weights against it. Bucky can see the way his muscles strain to keep him safely in Steve’s grip._ _

__They’re both running out of time to survive this catastrophe._ _

__So Bucky smiles the same smile he gave Steve the day they trekked their way back to Phillip’s camp, full of pride and helpless adoration. “It’s okay, Stevie,” he says and shifts his grip in Steve’s hand slightly. “You don’t need to hold on any longer.”_ _

__Something of Bucky’s intentions must have become apparent because Steve’s grip tightens and he struggles to gain more traction from where he’s laying across the beam, legs clamped in an attempt to keep himself steady._ _

__“I’m not letting you go, Barnes,” Steve says stubbornly and even the lack of recognition in his eyes isn’t enough to dim the swell of happiness in Bucky’s heart._ _

__At least I’ll have this, he tells himself. He’ll have the memory of Steve’s face looking down at him and the press of his hand in his as he falls. He’ll know that Hydra won’t be able to recover quickly enough to take Steve again after the blow they’d taken today. He’ll know that Steve will be safe._ _

__The thought gives him the strength he needs to look up at Steve for the last time, give him a crooked smile, and whisper, “I love you—til the end of the line.”_ _

__Then he twists his wrist and lets himself fall._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention I'm a slut for cliffhangers?
> 
> Whoops. ;)
> 
> As always, your comments give me life.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ride on, my angsty tribespeople. <3

Steve watches the stranger fall and feels his reality crumble like ash in the wake of a wildfire. Suddenly—

—he’s nine years old and grinning through his black eye at a gap-toothed boy with a bloody nose, triumphant as any conquerors and flush with the satisfaction of a new partnership forming—

—he’s staring at the halo of golden brown circling familiar dark hair as Bucky frowns down at his paper, full lips wrapped around the pencil he’s nibbling in concentration. There’s a breath before he looks up at Steve and Steve knows, he _knows_ , that he will never love another man like—

—Bucky’s chest presses against his back in a soothing line of warmth that Steve can’t help but curl into, selfish for any chance to touch and be touched. A warm voice murmurs into his ear over the sound of his labored breathing, “I’ve got you. Shh, I’ve got you, Stevie.”—

—he’s gasping in the air sweetened with the taste of Bucky’s passion, chest heaving under the weight of his elation because finally, _finally_ , he knows what the world looks like when he can say Bucky Barnes loves him as much as Steve has always loved him—

—there’s a dark anger tempered with horror thrumming under his skin as he rips away restraints and stares into the eyes of a Bucky he doesn’t recognize anymore—

\--Bucky grins up at him and licks his lips. “Did they make _all_ of you bigger, Rogers?”--

—a shot rings out over his shoulder and he knows without slowing in his rush toward the next group of soldiers that Bucky has his back, that Bucky would never let anything happen to him—

—then he’s staring down at an icy ravine and the tiny black figure that’s long disappeared from even his enhanced sight, trying to remember how to _breathe_ without Bucky there to give him a reason to, trying to convince himself not to follow when Gabe begins to drag him away from where Bucky had—

Bucky. 

Bucky.

 _Bucky._

He hears the broken sounds coming from his chest with the same distance that he acknowledges the tears streaming down his cheeks. His hands are still holding onto the metal beam that’s all that’s keeping him from falling into the churning water below him. All he can think is that he didn’t look for him— _he didn’t look for Bucky. He let him fall._

Steve let Hydra have Bucky. 

After so many months without memory, all his broken mind seems capable of conjuring is the sight of Bucky—face bruised beyond recognition, eyes shining with desperate hope and a quiet acceptance that makes Steve want to scream at him—falling through the glass and into the open air. 

It overlaps with the gut wrenching reminder that this is the second time Steve has failed to catch him, to hold him. He’s failed him twice.

 _No,_ he snarls with sudden clarity. He would not lose him again. Bucky has to live long enough for Steve to suffer for his betrayal. 

Without hesitation, Steve drops from the crashing ship, falling through the air with all the vicious focus he used on STRIKE missions. He doesn’t even bother to retrieve his shield from where it lays next to Rumlow’s unmoving body. None of that is important compared to what he must do now. 

This time he would find him. This time he would save him. 

This time Steve would not let Bucky Barnes leave this world without him. 

The water is an icy blow that only narrows his focus. If there is any truth to the determination of the Captain America legend, let it be so now. Let it be the force that channels every straining muscle and burning lungs as he pulls himself deeper into the water to search for the only thing that matters. The water is inky dark around him and full of shadows ripped free from the crashing ships above them. 

Steve feels a new panic then. Even with his enhanced senses, he can barely see a foot in front of his face and his lungs are already starting to strain from holding his breath and the pain from the hits he’d taken during the fight. His injuries are paltry compared to what he’d done to Bucky and the thought of how long Bucky had already been in the water makes him near frantic. 

It’s luck that has him brushing against cooling skin and a silken wave of dark hair. The kind of luck that makes him send a fervent thank you up to the god he hadn’t prayed to since the war took Bucky away even as he feels for Bucky’s arms and starts to yank him toward the surface. 

The other soldier is _heavy_ and all deadweight in his arms, but Steve would rather drown in the dark with him than give up now. 

By the time they break the surface, Steve is shaking with fatigue and black spots dance in his vision from the lack of air. He sucks in a breath and maneuvers Bucky onto his back so Steve can cradle him against his chest while he backstrokes toward shore. Steve sucks in more than a few mouthfuls of water in the process, but he keeps Bucky’s head out of the river with a single minded focus. 

The sensation of ground beneath his feet makes him want to weep in relief. 

Then the realization that Bucky isn’t breathing threatens to ruin him entirely. 

Moving quickly, Steve hauls him out of the river and onto his back. His fingers press against Bucky’s cool neck and he feels his panic grow when no heartbeat thuds beneath the pad of his thumb. 

“Bucky?” he says, sounding as frightened as he’s ever been. “Bucky, wake up.”

He shakes the other man and, when that gets no response, starts to pull off his bulletproof vest so he can begin chest compressions. 

“Come on, Buck, _please._ You can’t—you can’t do this to me.”

Without any interest in sparing the fear, Steve yanks hard on the outside of Bucky’s tactical gear to expose the muscles chest beneath. The smooth skin he remembers from before the ice has become pockmarked with scars like a tapestry of war, painted with the new bruises Steve left behind. He gulps, feeling tears prick his eyes as guilt and grief threaten to drown him. 

“Bucky, you’ve gotta wake up--”

“Don’t. Move.”

Steve spins toward the unexpected voice, his hands reaching for the shield that’s not there instinctively, and stares at the two masked figures standing a few yards away. 

The larger of the two wears a red and black leather suit that looks pockmarked with bullet holes and white eyes that are narrowed at Steve. At his back are two large katanas that seem to match the two mini-uzis he has aimed steadily at Steve’s head and chest. He stands with the confidence of a trained soldier and the tension of someone barely able to restrain the urge for violence. 

The other man has a similar suit in red and blue but is slightly leaner in build—built for speed and agility instead of power. He isn’t armed but somehow Steve doubts that he couldn’t defend himself if Steve attempted an attack. Neither of them look like Hydra, but he finds himself wishing for a way to protect Bucky anyway. 

“Please…” he says after a beat, damning his pride to hell so long as it mean Bucky would survive this, “he’s hurt.”

The larger of the two moves more quickly than even Steve expected to press the muzzle of his gun against Steve’s head. “Why should you care, huh Spangles? You’re working with the people who want him dead.”

“Deadpool,” the smaller man cuts in, “we don’t have time for this. We need to get Bucky back to the bunker.”

That gets a reaction out of Steve and he surges forward, only barely missing slicing himself open with the sword now pressed against his neck. He didn’t even notice the man switching his weapon, not with Bucky turning pale in his arms. Ignoring it, he snarls, “You aren’t taking him anywhere!”

Deadpool tightens his grip and begins to haul Steve backwards, the cool steel sitting like icy intent against his neck. “You don’t get a choice in the matter.” He looks over at his friend, “How bad is it, Spidey?”

The other man—Spider-Man, Steve finally recognizes from the newspapers—crouches over Bucky and ignores Steve’s warning growl to put his fingers on Bucky’s pulse point. The world seems to go quiet against the blood rushing in his ears when Spider-Man looks back at Deadpool, his expression unreadable behind the mask. 

“There’s no pulse.”

Steve makes a raw sound of grief and rushes forward, fighting against Deadpool’s hold with no finesse, only fear. “No no no no, _no_! He can’t—no, you have to check again! He can’t be dead! He can’t! I—“

“Petey, I might need your help,” Deadpool grunts as he struggles to keep Steve from bridging the gap between the two of them. The mixture of panic and exhaustion from the fight and the struggle to get Bucky to shore makes Steve’s struggles painfully weak and disjointed. Rough hands clamp down on his arms and Steve roars in fury, shoving the other man back quickly enough that he manages to stagger forward a few feet.

There’s no logic to his desire to return to Bucky. It’s like something deep inside him is convinced that everything will be alright if he can just touch him, if he can just stay beside him for a few minutes more. 

Bucky has to be alright. He _has_ to be.

Something smashes into his side before he can bridge the gap. The force of Spiderman’s tackle is enough to roll them both sideways--something that shouldn’t be possible with their size difference, but is explained the first time Steve tries to force the smaller man back. He has to be enhanced. It’s the only explanation for the way he catches Steve’s haymaker fast enough to send the supersoldier stumbling off balance. It gives Spiderman enough time to web his other hand to his side and tangle his feet in layers of the spider silk webbing that earned him his title. 

Steve grunts, rolling when he hits the ground to avoid the boot that Deadpool aims at his face. He hears the mercenary snarl out a curse, but he’s too focused on trying to rip his way free from the webs. 

Even as he struggles, his mind is whirling with half baked plans and strategies to somehow get Bucky to safety. He knows his options are limited. If he can get free, he might be able to run for it, but there’s no way he’ll escape carrying Bucky. And there’s no way he can leave Bucky again.

The sting of the dart in his back is almost a relief when it comes. He twists in time to see the familiar face of Maria Hill stalking across the riverbank toward them, her gun slowly returning to her side. She looks utterly unphased by the sight of the two masked men now crouched over the too-still body of the Winter Soldier or the way Steve continues to inch his way towards his fallen friend. Her eyes flick over him once--assessing, critical--before she moves on to Bucky.

Eyes growing heavy, Steve pleads with her. “Please...he’s...he’s hurt.”

Someone hauls him bodily off the ground like an oversized sack of potatoes and he hears the sound of an engine pulling closer. Through the haze of drugs, Steve hears Hill make a sad sound.

“--might be too late now….”

Then there’s nothing but darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Steve finally has his memories back. Maybe that'll be enough to make up for the second cliff hanger in a row. ;)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve in the Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some slight trigger warnings: This is a heavy angst chapter. Steve is convinced Bucky is dead and is struggling to deal with the fact that he helped kill him. Because of this, he briefly mentions a desire for suicide like he did with the Valkyerie. It is only discussed in passing, but if that is something that will upset you, you can skip to the last sentence and understand what has happened essentially.
> 
> Otherwise, read on my angsty friends!

Steve wakes up with the knowledge of his failure sitting like acid on his tongue.

He knows without more than a cursory glance that he’s another holding cell for SHIELD or some other agency. This time he’s sure there won’t be some pretty brunette in an ill-designed costume waiting for him to wake up. The only pretty brunette he wants to see probably bled out on the side of the Potomac.

It’s the cruelest sort of torture knowing your soulmate would be alive if it weren’t for you.

Bucky had always been destined for some bright future. He was too charismatic, too gloriously bright and wonderful to spend his life slumming in the streets of Brooklyn with his sickly sidekick. The war had taken that future away. _Steve_ had taken that future away from him.

As soon as Bucky had decided to take on the angry, bittle, fragile boy from down the street, he’d doomed himself to a life of misery. Steve had been too selfish to turn away Bucky’s wicked humor or his unfailing loyalty. He’d been desperate to spend just a few more minutes in the bright warmth of Bucky’s laughter and the press of his skin against his. The price of that selfishness had been ripped and scarred into Bucky’s flesh while Steve somehow managed to walk free. Free to live another day with the sound of Bucky’s scream lingering in his ears.

Steve is Sisyphus, doomed to an eternity spent trying and failing to save his lover from falling into the open air.

First, as a weak, lonely boy desperate to be a part of something meaningful. Then, as a hero created fresh from the propagandist’s papers and a kind man’s science. Now, he has returned as a shadow of his former selves. Some mockery of the man he once was, linked to his past only by his continued failure to protect the man who’d spent his life protecting him.

That skinny, sickly boy who had been willing to risk everything to be at Bucky’s side is screaming in rage deep in his chest. It’s the only emotion strong enough to breathe through the suffocating knowledge that, for the second time, he was responsible for Bucky’s death. He wants to scream with that version of himself, full of righteous anger and hope, but there’s nothing but he only lays on the skinny cot contemplating his failure.

_Please, Stevie, you have to believe me..._

Every time he closes his eyes Bucky is waiting for him. Eyes bright with a mixture of worry and hope, determination and the knowledge that he was willing to do whatever it took to save Steve from Hydra’s plans for him. Even when his chest rattled with the blood and pain delivered by Steve’s fists, he hadn’t faltered. Bucky had never been willing to consider his own life when it was a choice between him or Steve.

_I love you--til the end of the line._

And Steve had repaid that love and loyalty with only betrayal.

He’d been--he’d been working for Hydra ever since he was thawed from the ice, Steve realizes. The same people who had found Bucky’s broken, mangled body in the Alps and burned away every piece of goodness left in his soul like he was nothing more than a machine. An asset to be used. 

Oh god, he had planned to turn Bucky over to SHIELD--to _Hydra_ \--once he was captured. They would’ve--

Steve twists off the cot in time to retch into the toilet set against the wall of his cell. His stomach heaves up a vicious concoction of guilt and seemingly endless waves of misery until he’s left shaking against the cool porcelain. Tears join the damp trails left by sweat through the blood and grime of the fight.

_I love you, Stevie._

He wonders how long it will be before someone comes in to see the broken shell of a man they’d been tricked into believing was a hero. He wants to rage against the unfairness of it all. Bucky had always been the hero. Any goodness that had once lived in Steve had only blossomed under Bucky’s sunlight.

Steve isn’t sure how long he lays on the uncomfortably cold floor beside the toilet. Long enough that his hip is aching like the bruises that have already begun to fade. He wants to press his fingers into the disappearing shades of purple and black, to mark his bones and blood with the last touches he’d felt from Bucky. He deserved every lick of pain--it was nothing compared to what Bucky had already experienced.

And it was all his fault.

The pages of the folder that Pierce had given to him were burned into Steve’s brain with a sick reminder that his serum-enhanced brain will never forget the way Hydra had tortured him. He knew the exact number of times Bucky had been placed in the Chair before he forgot his rank, his serial number, and eventually his own name. And that it had taken even longer before the ‘Asset’ stopped asking where Steve was and why he wasn’t there with him. 

He knew everything--but it still hadn’t been enough to make the version of himself without the memories of Bucky hesitate to question his superiors’ commands. 

Steve is jostled from his thoughts by the sound of the door lock disengaging to reveal a bandaged Fury carrying a sheaf of paper.

Fury looks Steve over critically before setting down his papers and settling onto one of the chairs at the table in the center of the room. He purses his lips.

“You look like shit, Captain.”

Steve tries to summon up some modicum of surprise to see Fury alive, but fails. He shifts so his back is against the wall and stares at the other man. It takes too much energy to redirect his rage away from himself to the man he’d once trusted, so he hides behind the mask of sharp sarcasm that he’d acquired in his months without memory. 

“You’re looking remarkably fit for a dead man.”

“Funny thing about death--it doesn’t seem to stick to men like us.”

Steve’s eyes drift to the wall behind the former Director of SHIELD considering the last time he’d met with death. Then, he’d been grateful for the opportunity to end the farce that was Captain America and to die as the broken man who’d been born the moment Bucky had fallen. It occurs to Steve that, this time, there’s no chance to go down in a blaze of glory with a spy’s voice on the radio promising something impossible and a dead man’s ghost keeping him company.

_Please, Stevie..._

Suddenly, he’s too tired to play Fury’s games. “What do you want?”

“Pierce is dead,” Fury says, ignoring Steve’s question. “Romanov shot him before the helicarriers even went down--said she thought something foul was underfoot.” For a moment, Fury almost looks proud and the hint of a smile twitches at the corners of his lips. “Turns out she was right. Hydra has been using SHIELD as a cover.”

He pauses like he expects Steve to respond, but the soldier only stares at him. Knowing that his final act in honor of Bucky was all for nothing barely registers against the memory of Bucky's bones breaking under his fists.

Fury pulls open the folder he’d brought and rifles through the pages. From his position on the floor, Steve makes out the reports he’d submitted with the STRIKE team. “The question now is--how much of that did you already know?”

Steve makes a rough sound. “You think I’m Hydra?”

“You worked with Rumlow, one of Pierce’s closest agents. You assisted in a number of missions that furthered Hydra interests.”

Each word felt like a nail in the coffin he would bury himself in. Already his chest was tightening under the weight of understanding just how long he’d let himself be used. He’d been so terrified of being bench and useless in this strange new future that he’d ignored all the signs of the shadows around him. Hell, he had helped Hydra. He would’ve given them Bucky and never questioned it.

And now Bucky was dead.

_Til the end of the line, punk._

Neither of them had ever considered that the end of the line might come sooner for one of them. 

Fury watches the emotions and self-loathing play across his face. Abruptly his expression softens and he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You fucked up, Rogers--trusted the wrong man with the future. Both of us did.”

“So what now? Should I call a lawyer or will I be shuffled off to some prison for the rest of my life?”

“Is that what you want?”

Steve doesn’t hesitate. “It’s what I deserve.”

Fury looks him over curiously. “For helping Hydra? Or for not realizing you were working for them?”

“For hurting him.” His voice cracks on the last word and Steve clenches his fingers into his palms until he feels blood trickle down his wrists. Admitting it aloud feels like twisting the knife in his chest, but Steve Rogers has never backed away from a fight--even with himself. “He tried to stop me and I killed him for it.”

Fury grunts and stands up, picking up his papers as he did. He starts for the door, but pauses at the handle to look back at the broken soldier on the floor. Fury hesitates before he finally twists the knob and steps out, tossing over his shoulder almost casually,

“Barnes isn’t dead.”

He’s gone before Steve can suck in enough air to respond.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Close Door Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'd intended for this to be the last chapter, but, as I always seem to manage, the chapter just kept getting longer and longer. I decided to split it into two parts so you wouldn't have to wait too long for an update. Hopefully I'll clean up the last chapter in the next couple days and you'll finally have some resolutions.
> 
> Until then, we ride, my angsty tribesmen.

Returning to consciousness is a process Bucky is achingly familiar with.

It starts with a bone deep throb left behind by whatever injuries that sent him into the dark. Zola’s serum was nothing compared to the fast-acting work of Erskine’s concoction. When he’d first seen Steve walk away from a firefight with iron bullets dropping free from sluggishly bleeding holes, Bucky had been grateful for that distinction. It wasn’t until he was in Hydra’s hands that he began to wish it were different. 

Next was always the sound of his own labored breathing, whistling faintly through his nose thanks to a plastic cannula. Eventually he can make out the sounds of a heart rate monitor steadily beeping along and voices far enough away to indicate they were outside of the room. 

The smell of disinfectant and bleach was familiar enough to trigger a panic that had his eyes flicking open and squinting against the bright halogen lighting.

 _Report status, Soldat,_ a cruel, familiar voice whispers in his mind.

_Ready to comply._

Fighting down panic, Bucky forces himself to take in every detail of the hospital room around him. His left arm gives a faint, weak whir as it recalibrates despite the damage that makes it hang heavy at his side. He twitches his right arm and lets out a sigh of relief when he confirms that he isn’t restrained. The bed sheets tucked around him are warm and clean--nothing like the cold metal surgery bays where he received ‘maintenance.’ He can even see the edge of several swathes of white bandages peeking out from the edges of the sheets and along his flesh arm.

Before he can investigate himself further, the door swings open with a bang and Deadpool marches into the room with Spiderman at his heels. They’re arguing back and forth about the merits of spandex versus leather with enough hand gestures and impassioned opinions that Bucky feels his lips twitch. Both are still in their costumes--now significantly worse for wear--and seem to be surprised to see him awake. 

Peter recovers first and rolls up his mask enough to reveal a wide, relieved smile. “You’re awake!” he says and comes forward to help tilt the bed so Bucky can see them easier. “The doctors weren’t sure how long it would take for you to recover with your serum.”

He guesses the two vigilantes must not be thrilled at being in the midst of a bunch of former SHIELD agents. Fury had never enjoyed having metahumans working outside of his control from what Bucky could see. Keeping their masks on would be a meager defense against Fury and his spies. The fact that they were still here despite the risk made something inside him warm.

“How long was I out?” He frowns over at Wade when he notices the way the former soldier remains near the door like he’s standing guard. Something about the way his shoulders are hunched makes Bucky think something more must be going on.

“Three days.”

Bucky’s eyes dart back to Peter. “What?” he asks hoarsely. He tries to sit up and gasps at the bolt of agony that shoots down his side. “I have to get out of here.”

His minds already full of all the places Steve might’ve ended up in that amount of time. If he’d gotten out of the helicarrier, he would be defenseless against whatever was left of Hydra. He couldn’t be sure that Steve believing Pierce’s lies would be enough to keep him out of the fallout. 

Wade steps forward to push his hand on Bucky’s chest, stilling the motion. “Don’t worry there, Bright Eyes. We’ve been watchin’ over you the whole time, Petey and me. We made sure they didn’t try to hide you away or let any Hydra goons get their grubby hands on your delectable body.”

“We didn’t even let them take blood samples,” Peter adds, looking a little frazzled even through the mask from what must have been days of constant vigilance. “Fury was, well, furious, but we told them they couldn’t take anything without your consent. And after the helicarriers, they didn’t really want to--”

“Have they started recovering the carriers?” Bucky asks over the frantic pace of his heart on the monitors. He has to swallow hard before he can force the next words out. “Is...is he?”

Peter and Wade exchange a look and Bucky feels the world tilt oddly on its axis. 

_Nononononopleasenoplease_

Bucky loses time. 

Someone is making a high, gasping noise and it isn’t until Wade’s grip tightens around his arm that Bucky realizes it’s him. All his mind seems capable of producing is babbling pleas and the image of Steve standing silhouetted against the burning helicarrier as Bucky fell once again. The memory is superimposed over icy winds and the screams of a man who knows he’s lost everything that mattered in a single instinct.

“Sergeant Barnes--”

It’s all his fault. He should never have engaged with Steve with the quinjet. Hell, he’d practically dared the man to follow him up onto the helicarrier with his display. He was supposed to keep him _safe_. Steve was always meant to survive this, not Bucky.

“ _Bucky!_ ” 

His lungs seize into a painful rhythm that makes him think about the way Steve used to shudder in his arms in the midst of an asthma attack. His fingers clamp down on the metal railing of the bed under his bones creak and the metal shrieks in protest on his left side. It’s nothing, nothing, compared to knowing that he’s failed. He’s failed to protect the only good thing he’s ever known. He’s failed St--

Gloved hands cup his cheek and force him to look up into wide, white lenses. Deadpool’s mask is strange enough this close that Bucky blinks and the other man gives him a gentle shake. “Take a breath, Barnes. In for four seconds, out for five.”

After a few seconds, Bucky finds himself mimicking the breathing patterns of the other man. His eyes are wide and fixed on Wade like a lodestone. Slowly, the monitors stop shrieking in alarm and Bucky collapses back against the bed, feeling numbed in the wake of the panic attack. Wade watches him clinically before nodding.

“Rogers isn’t dead.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to him despite the way Peter makes a soft sound of protest. “Fury said--”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about what ol’ one eye says,” Wade hisses and drags one of the chairs set against the wall so he can straddle it beside the bed. “He deserves to know.”

“Where is he? Is he hurt?” Like a drowning man presented with a raft, Bucky’s entire body seems to be fixated on every word coming from Wade’s mouth. “Why isn’t he here?”

The last question comes from habit and frail kind of hope. The Steve he’d grown up with and had fought beside would never have let Bucky wake up alone in a hospital. Especially not after Azzano. 

Something is wrong. They aren’t telling him everything.

“ _Where is Steve?_ ”

“Why do you want to see him?!” Deadpool snaps back, his fingers edging towards his weapons like a child to their favorite toy. “He’s the one who put you here!”

Bucky flinches from the combination of pity and judgement in their eyes. “He wouldn’t--”

“He threw you off the helicarrier, Bucky,” Peter says softly. “You have several broken bones, contusions, and a gunshot wound in your chest. The only reason you didn’t bleed out was because Hill was able to get you back to the bunker in time. When we got to you, you had already started to flatline.”

“He doesn’t have his memories back yet,” Bucky defends staunchly.

Wade makes a disgruntled sound, clearly unhappy with the reminder. “Well that certainly didn’t stop him from kicking the shit out of you then following you down to finish the job.”

Bucky’s eyes jerked back to Wade in time to see the other man sigh like he hadn’t meant to say that much. “What?”

“It doesn’t mean anythin--”

“He followed me?”

“If by follow, you mean we caught him trying to murder you or turn you over to Hydra, then yeah, Captain Spangles followed you,” Wade’s tone was uncharacteristically flat, his irritation obvious in the way his fingers continue to twitch and flex over the handle of his weapons. Peter reaches over to gently pull them away from the trigger and Wade releases a tight breath. “We saw him attack you, Buckaroo. He would’ve kept attacking you if we hadn’t stopped him.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Both of the superheroes looked at Bucky in surprise at the vehemence in the simple statement.

Methodically, Bucky starts pulling off the various wires and clips attached to him and ignores the machines’ protests. Peter makes a movement like he might stop him, but stops when Bucky levels a glare at him. His mind is spinning between flashes of memory from the fight on the helicarrier and the boy he’d sworn to love for the rest of his life.

\--He’s staring up at the greenish halo of the lights surrounding the face of the boy he’d loved trapped in the body of another. But the worry and love in those blue, blue eyes is all Stevie. All his.--

\--Steve’s lips curl into a wordless snarl as he shifts his weight to his back leg to drive every bit of his strength into the vicious right hook aimed at Bucky’s jaw.--

\--Calloused fingers trail over the delicate skin of his back, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Lips trace the line of his spine to end next to his ear and he smiles into the sheets at the soft words that seem to flow so easily from Steve’s lips when he’s happy and sated.--

\--Gloved hands grasp tightly to his own, matching the wild panic in the eyes looking down at him. Bucky tries to be brave, tries to smile, but all of his courage is ripped away in the icy wind and empty air waiting beneath him. He already knows how this ends.--

\--”It’s you and me, Buck. Til’ the end of the line.”--

_Til the end of the line._

“I’m going to find Steve,” Bucky says abruptly as he gets to his feet with all the grace of a newborn foal.

“That sounds like a fucking stupid idea.”

All of them look up in surprise at the sound of Fury’s voice. The man is wearing his patented frown and crosses his arms across his chest while he glares at the three of them. His eye fixes on Bucky, still weaving faintly where he stands.

“Rogers is compromised and you know it,” he continues.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s still Steve.”

“He isn’t the Steve you knew before. We don’t know how much of Hydra’s rhetoric he believes now. He was under their influence for too long.”

Bucky snorts out a bitter laugh. “If you think that Steve Rogers isn’t capable of questioning orders, you haven’t been paying attention.”

“He didn’t question the order to take you out.”

He doesn’t respond, just reaches for the pair of sweatpants laying across the end of the bed. It hurt like blazes to bend over to pull them up, but Bucky pushes the pain to the back of his mind. He has plenty of practice with ignoring his body’s cues when he has a mission to focus on. Right now, it’s the easiest thing in the world to keep his mind fixed on the problem he’s always loved most.

Steve Rogers.

“With all due respect, sir, I know exactly how good Hydra is at making sure someone follows their orders,” Bucky says as he straightens and begins to walk toward the door. 

“And if he doesn’t remember you?”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate when he walks past Fury and he hears Peter and Wade scramble to follow. “Then I’ll stay until he does.”

Til the end of the line.

He’s several steps down the hallway--trying to guess where the remains of SHIELD might hide a brainwashed supersoldier--when he hears Fury chuckle ruefully under his breath and call down the hallway, “He’s in Cell Block A. Good luck, soldier.”

___________________________________________________

Bucky is panting and sweating by the time he reaches the elevator blocks. He’s already passed a number of curious soldiers and plain clothes agents who eye him with a mixture of suspicion and fear. It’s hard to tell if it’s because of the Winter Soldier in their midst or the two masked vigilantes trailing behind him. Wade and Peter still look a little mutinous at the idea of him visiting Steve, but they seemed to have accepted that he isn’t about to stop. He knows they’re only coming with him for protection just like he knows that he won’t need it. 

If Steve wants to kill him, he won’t stop him.

For now, all he can think about is how many steps are between him and Steve. Fury and the others had begrudgingly confirmed that Steve had been captured at the same time Bucky had been taken back which meant that Steve had been sitting in a cell alone for three days. He had to be crawling out of his skin with frustration by now. Bucky knew Steve’s moods better than his own and knew from experience that Steve took to being locked inside with all the patience of a bear with a hurt paw.

The cell block was all stark metal and grey concrete with no attempt to soften the harsh lines. It was a bunker, after all. A glance through one of the windows to an empty cell confirmed that the interior was just as barren. Bucky wonders at what kind of scenarios had Fury planning to hold so many prisoners--and building cells meant to withstand superhuman strength.

His skin twitches and itches like ants crawling around beneath the surface. Every inch of him wants to run back into the sunlight and breathe in the fresh air instead of this stale, recycled breeze. It’s too close to the places where Hydra kept him stored for years between training sessions and missions. Dark memories of muzzles and metal restraints flicker like shadows along the wall as he passes through each layer of security.

It’s only the knowledge that Steve is waiting--alone, hurt, and probably confused as hell--that keeps him moving forward against the bone deep urge to run far far away from this place.

Reaching Steve’s cell is almost as upsetting as the process of getting there. There are armed guards on either side of the reinforced doorway. They look annoyed at his approach, but Fury must have warned them Bucky was coming because they merely give him a long look before one punches in the code to open the door. Wade and Peter start to follow him, but bucky shakes his head.

“I need to talk to him alone.”

“He’s just going to attack you again,” Peter argues.

“If he does, you can come in and get me. Without being able to take me back to Pierce, there’s no reason to kill me now,” Bucky says, eyes fixed on the opening that would lead him to Steve. Despite the way his heart ached to see for himself that Steve was alive, he knows better than to hope the other man would feel anything more than a desire to bring the Winter Soldier to justice.

Wade stares at him for a long moment before nudging Peter and going to lean against the wall so he could waggle his eyes at the two guards. “I guess me an’ Webs can find a way to entertain ourselves out here.”

Bucky steps through the door in time to hear Deadpool ask in a lecherous tone, “Which one of you is more flexible, do you think?”

Inside is another, smaller room with a large viewing window along one side that faces the cell beyond. Bucky casts a perfunctory glance over the space, noting the small vents where gas could be pumped in if Steve managed to break out of the main cell and the way the door seals behind with enough force to prove the space is vacuum sealed. He wonders how long SHIELD has been planning ways to restrain a Captain America turned evil.

All thoughts of SHIELD or Fury’s scheming disappear when a small movement on the other side of the window draws his attention to the cell beyond. 

It’s a reasonably sized prison, as prisons go. A twin bed is bolted to the ground near the wall and Bucky can see a small stall against the opposite wall to give the prisoner some privacy for the shower and toilet. A metal table is also bolted to the floor under the single light in the room with matching two chairs. All this he takes in in a single glance that tells him everything he needs to know about the room’s single occupant. 

Because everything--from the cotton sheets to the metal chairs--has been methodically, viciously destroyed.

The chairs look like they were made from aluminum foil for all the shapes they’ve been bent into. There’s a crack in the concrete near the door where something must have been slammed repeatedly against it and Bucky can see a hairline crack in the ballistic level glass of the window. Glass from the broken glass covering for the light litters the ground in glittering shards. Someone must have attempted to placate him with the books whose pages now drift across the ground like inky snow. 

And there, chest heaving and fists clenched at his side like he intends to fight the world or die trying, is Steven Grant Rogers.

For a moment, Bucky is breathless, too caught up in the wonder of being able to see Steve in such a familiar pose. How could he have ever forgotten how glorious he was when he was in a rage? Blonde hair is tousled in jagged chunks where Bucky knows those long, artist’s fingers have been raking through them as an outlet for the anger that’s vibrating through his large frame. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones that drags Bucky’s mind back to long evenings spent chasing that blush across smooth skin and a narrow rib cage. A muscle flutters in Steve’s cheek as he glares at the window like he could set it on fire if he focused enough.

“Let me out of here, Fury, you son of a bitch!” he snarls and Bucky flinches before he realizes that the glass must be one way. “I know you’re there--answer me!”

Bucky glances toward the door to the cell, torn between the knowledge that Steve doesn’t actually remember him anymore and the hope that somehow he will. On the wall, he sees an intercom system next to the narrow opening that they must use to push through trays of food. Silently, Bucky walks over to the intercom and, after a pause to gather himself, clicks the microphone on.

“Is there something you need, Captain?” he asks, his voice raspy enough from lack of use to do a decent job of disguising who he is.

He tells himself that this might be the best way to make sure Steve is okay aside from his captivity. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to be here, but if Bucky can convince Fury that Steve is willing to listen to reason then maybe SHIELD will let him go.

Something in Steve’s expression flickers and the rage is softened by a more complicated emotion. “You aren’t Fury.”

“No, I’m not.”

“What do you want from me? I’ve already told Fury I didn’t know anything about Hydra.”

A sliver of relief ripples through Bucky at the confession of innocence. He leans against the wall to release a slow breath of air. His body protests the shift, tired and aching viciously from the activity that they weren’t clear to do.

Steve continues speaking before Bucky can answer, his voice laced with an underlying note of pleading. “Do you know where he is?”

“Who?” Bucky asks, forcing himself to focus past the pain. “Fury?”

“Bucky.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, I'm alive! 
> 
> Seriously though, sorry it took a while for this chapter to get posted. If you're following any of my other stories, you know that I participated in the Stucky Big Bang this year and I put some of my other stories on hold while I finished that up. So sorry for the delay.
> 
> Also ending stories is always crazy difficult, but I hope you enjoy it!

The sound of his name in Steve’s mouth makes him stumble and Bucky jerks his head up to meet Steve’s eyes through the one-way mirror. Those familiar blue eyes are dark with a mixture of concern and fear, flicking restlessly from the window to the door. At his side, Steve’s fingers toy with the hem of his simple cotton shirt before clenching into fists. The cost of the question was plain on his face.

Bucky stares at him for a long moment while he tries to force his throat to work past the sudden lump forming in it. His heart feels like it’s attempting to leap out of his chest and crawl across the floor to where it belongs at Steve’s feet. He looks at the door, but hesitates and reminds himself that Steve doesn’t remember anything about the way they used to be, just the reality of what Bucky had been for Hydra in his absence.

So, he ignores the way his voice cracks dangerously and asks through the intercom, “You mean the Winter Soldier?”

A hint of a snarl crosses Steve’s face at the title, but the other man seems too concerned with information to let that stop him. “Fury told me he was alive...is he--do you know if he’s awake?”

“He’ll be fine in a few days,” Bucky mutters quietly, giving in to the urge to press his right hand against the cold glass like he could reach out and touch him. “Don’t worry about him.”

Steve sucks in a shuddering breath, rubbing his hand over his eyes in a gesture Bucky recognizes from when they were children and he was trying not to cry. “Good,” he nods, “good, that’s--I’m glad he’ll be okay.” Then he takes a step closer to the window, glass crunching under thin slippers. “Will you tell me when he wakes up?”

“Why?” Bucky rasps.

Steve looks away, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and bites his lip. “I’m the one who hurt him,” he finally murmurs.

“He’s the Winter Soldier. He worked for Hydra for years--no one will blame you for fighting against him.”

The truth of it is ugly and brutal in the silence of the cell. It’s a reminder as much as it is an attempt to comfort Steve. Even without his memories, Steve is still  _ good _ , still the paragon of virtue that Captain America was meant to embody. But Bucky was a scarred, broken thing even before the fall from the train. 

He was killer from the moment he stepped onto the train to head to the front. First for his superior officers and the strange satisfaction of seeing a bullet hit its mark in boot camp. They told him the guilt would fade as soon as he realized that what he was doing was for the greater good. It was a pale comfort on the long nights where his hands shook and the ghosts lingered close. 

Then it was for Steve and to make sure that all the sins of war remained piled high on Bucky’s shoulders. Anything to keep the man he loved from the endless string of lifeless faces that haunted him each time he closed his eyes.

Killing for Hydra had been something else entirely. The memory wipes became a solace for the broken creature drowning under waves of guilt and confusion because they signaled the end of the voice deep in his chest screaming _ wrongwrongwrong _ . Even worse was the way the Asset had looked forward to each mission as a chance to make his handlers happy with him and to escape the bitter cold of cryo and their brutal punishments. The shame of knowing how often he’d ended a life without actually needing the promise of pain to steady his hands would never go away.

The blood on his hands made the blood from his current wounds seem weak in comparison.

“He would never work for them willingly.” Steve’s voice is as sure as it had been in each of the propaganda films in the war. He stands to his full height and glowers like he can see through the glass to where Bucky is still standing in the shadows. “He isn’t responsible for what they forced him to do.”

Oh Stevie, if only you knew what he’d become.

“He’s nothing more than a weapon.”

“ _ He’s my friend! _ ” Steve’s hand slams into the glass in front of Bucky’s face and abruptly Bucky finds himself staring into the eyes that have haunted him for decades.

Bucky licks his lips, startled by the sudden movement and the fierce emotion on Steve’s face. He’s breathing hard enough for his ribs to begin aching again, but he doesn’t care. For a long moment, they stare at each other like Steve could see through the glass. The window fogs slightly from the heat of his breath and Bucky finds himself leaning forward in an effort to feel the familiar warmth. Then Steve sighs and turns away to sit down heavily on his bed. He makes a disgusted sound and rakes his fingers through his hair until it sticks up in ragged tufts. 

The cold metal of the door handle is in Bucky’s palm before his brain completes the thought. Even years of Hydra conditioning wasn’t enough to keep Bucky Barnes from Steve Rogers when he was hurt. Any thought of what Steve might do to him if he still believes Hydra’s lies is meaningless against the soul-deep  _ need _ to soothe away the sorrow on his face.

It opens with a burst of cooler air and Bucky finds himself trembling inside the cell with nothing between him and Steve but years of lost memories and pain. Steve doesn’t look up at the sound, but Bucky can tell by the way his shoulders tighten a little more that he knows he isn’t alone. It’s such a familiar gesture that Bucky feels his heart give a little pang.

His Stevie, always ready to carry the weight of the world and all the guilt that came with it.

The thought makes it easier to take the first step inside the cell. His chest is throbbing now, breath coming noisily thanks to the broken ribs along one side. He knows Steve must be listening to his movements by how still he’s gone, but the other man doesn’t look up until Bucky speaks.

“Hey Stevie,” he whispers, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

In any other situation, the speed at which Steve’s head snaps up to look at him would’ve made him smile. Now, he just settles more firmly against the wall to keep himself from toppling under the weight of all his hopes and the emotions playing out on Steve’s face.

“Bucky…” Steve breathes.

There’s enough relief in his voice to give Bucky the courage he needs to ask the next question. “Remember me?” he asks with a crooked little smile that does little to cover up his own nerves.

Steve’s looking at him like if he blinks Bucky might disappear and it takes him a long moment to find his voice. 

“Your mother’s name was Winnie,” he begins and Bucky feels his heart stutter. “You worked down at the docks after school for weeks before I found out you were helping my ma pay for my medicine.”

Bucky takes a stumbling step forward, hating the way Steve’s eyes are bright with unshed tears and the way he continues to hunch inward like he’s trying to hide the muscular width of his shoulders.

“You didn’t want to go to war because you were afraid I’d get myself killed without you there to keep me in line.”

Bucky makes a choked off sound, voice raw. “And you ran straight into trouble the second I shipped out, you punk.”

“You told me you were afraid of how the war would end,” Steve whispers, “the night before you fell off the train.” He swallows hard and Bucky takes another step forward until he’s close enough to reach out and touch him. Any lingering doubts that Steve might just be reciting the history of the war from some museum exhibit dies a quick death. Steve’s voice is raw and bitter with guilt. “You were scared, but I told you it would be easy. That we’d be back home before you knew it. And then you--then you--”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs and reaches out to run his fingers through Steve’s hair, smoothing the spiky strands, “that wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault.”

Steve makes a ragged sound and collapses against Bucky, forehead pressed tight against Bucky’s stomach and muscular arms wrapped around him like he’s afraid Bucky would leave. Bucky lets his own arms wrap around Steve’s head and shoulders, leaning forward to breathe in the familiar scent of sweat and warm skin and  _ home _ . Tears are dripping down his cheeks and his chest is burning from the stress of moving with all his injuries, but Bucky refuses to move, refuses to let go of Steve when the man is holding him like he’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. 

He’s not unconvinced that the world wouldn’t fall apart if he had to let Steve go again.

“Shh, love. You’re okay. You’re okay, I’ve got you,” he murmurs over and over again. His fingers card through Steve’s hair in a soothing rhythm and Bucky closes his eyes to try to imprint this memory deep enough in his scarred brain that it can never be erased.

“I’m sorry--God. I’m so sorry, Bucky,” Steve repeats into the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. “I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” It’s enough to make Steve lean back to glare at him, hands brushing over the outline of the bandages visible through the hospital gown Bucky is still wearing over his pants. He frowns at them like he’s trying to memorize the shapes to torment himself with later and Bucky reaches down to tilt his chin up so he can repeat himself more firmly. “It wasn’t your fault, Steve.”

Steve’s hands fist at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach for Bucky again. “I tried to kill you--I  _ wanted _ to hurt you. I was going to bring you back to the people who--who--”

His voice cuts off like he’s struggling to breathe through the asthma that his body no longer has. Bucky spares a moment to feel the hatred he has for Hydra reignite once more for the way they’ve broken the very best part of Steve Rogers for their own plans. The boy of his childhood, the boy he’d loved and had loved him just as fiercely, had always been driven to protect others. Hydra had taken that from both of them. 

“You didn’t know, Stevie. You didn’t remember anything and they took advantage of that. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“I didn’t  _ want _ to remember,” Steve says like he’s a confessing a mortal sin and Bucky’s heart breaks a little. For Steve, it would be. He’d never turned down a chance at a fight or to do what was right. Whatever version of Steve that had been resurrected from the ice had had no reason to want to linger in a past that would hurt him. “I thought it would be better to forget what it was like before so I could just focus on the world now. I didn’t want to think about Peggy or the Howlies or anyone I might have left behind because I didn’t want to have to grieve for everyone I’d lost. I just wanted to fight and pretend everything was alright.”

He runs his fingers over Bucky’s chest gently and Bucky shivers helplessly, leaning forward like a flower into the sun until Steve pulls his hand back to continue. “They told me you betrayed me--that you worked for Hydra all along--and I believed them because it was easy. I knew what Pierce was saying didn’t seem right, but I didn’t start asking questions until it was too late and even then I still--”

“Steve,” Bucky cut in firmly. “You know how Hydra works. They wouldn’t have given you a reason to question them. They controlled all of the information given to you so they could make sure you did what they wanted.”

“I should have  _ known _ ,” Steve grieves, jerking his hand away from Bucky so he can stare helplessly up at him. “It was you all along and I knew something wasn’t right--I knew it. I just  _ didn’t care _ .”

Bucky is silent for a long moment.

When he speaks, his voice is flat. “Did you read my file?”

Steve’s flinch is answer enough.

“So you know what I did for them.” The truth of his past sits like the sharpest of blades, twisting deeper in his ribcage. He knows what happened in the years where his mind was lost and Steve was gone will forever shape his future.

No matter how much good he does or how many people he saves, he will never be able to salvage the deaths he wrought. Saving Steve from them is only a drop in the bucket compared to the darkness in his soul. Memories of the past and the present layer in his mind like a bloodied kaleidoscope, forever taunting the world in shades of ochre and gore. Bucky closes his eyes and tries not to think about how much the truth will change things between them. A part of him will always be Hydra’s Asset.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Steve protests like he can tell where Bucky’s mind has gone. His hand makes an aborted move toward before he curls it in his lap. “You aren’t responsible for what they forced you to do.”

Bucky meets his eyes with a sad smile. “But you are?”

He looks away quickly, gaze hardening on some unseen place in the distance. “That’s different.”

“Why? Because you didn’t have to be tortured first?”

_ “Because I hurt you!” _ Steve snarls, jerking to his feet and pacing away like a caged beast. He twists back to Bucky and he nearly flinches at the grief and despair in those familiar eyes. “Because I know what it feels like to break your bones with my fists and how long it takes before a kick from me begins to slow you down. I know how to break through your defenses to do the most damage and I can’t--” 

He breaks off with ragged curse, “I can’t close my eyes without seeing you there begging me to remember. To just  _ believe _ you. And I just--I just kept--”

Bucky moves forward on an instinct born from years of watching Steve take on the problems of the world like he was the only one capable of it. His heart finds its rhythm pressed up against Steve’s, arms anchoring the two of them together like he can erase the years like he can erase the distance between them. Steve stiffens for barely a second before he seems to collapse against Bucky, making him stumble until they fall backwards onto the cot. The movement makes his injuries screech out a protest that he ignores.

Having Steve in his arms is worth every moment of agony, every teardrop forgotten on a cell floor, every whispered prayer in the dark.

“It’s okay,” he promises, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you go again.”

Steve sucks in a shuddering breath. He leans forward until his cheek is pressed against Bucky’s chest like he had when he was small. It settles something deep inside of Bucky that he didn’t know was aching and he wraps his arms around him to complete the shelter he’d once offered to the sickly boy he loved. He brushes his lips over the stubborn cowlick on Steve’s hairline and breathes in the scent of home.

“How can you still want me after I hurt you so badly?” Steve whispers wretchedly. His shoulders remain tight like his muscles can’t decide if he should pull away or sage forward. 

Bucky presses his fingers under his chin until he can look into blue eyes gone red and blotchy with despair. Even then, Steve doesn’t retreat from him, just steels himself like he’s preparing for the worst.

“You listen to me, Steven Grant Rogers,” Bucky growls and is pleased when the sound makes Steve shiver slightly, “what we have right here is a gift that neither of us expected to get. Not after the train and certainly not after Hydra.” His thumb brushes along the familiar jawline, finding the slight cleft in his chin where it fit perfectly and Bucky leans forward to press his forehead against Steve’s. “I spent seventy years grieving for you and I’ll be damned if I ever let you out of my sight again.”

For a long moment, Steve is silent; the only sign that he heard Bucky is the way he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Bucky taps him over his heart and lets the steady rhythm anchor him. “This ain’t our end of the line yet and I don’t plan to ever stop following that skinny little punk for Brooklyn. Not now. Not ever. You hear me?”

Steve doesn’t answer, he just leans forward and kisses Bucky breathless.

_____________________________________________

Later--much later--Bucky falls asleep to the sound of Steve’s steady breathing and a whispered promise in his ear,

“I’m with you, til the end of the line.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it folks, the End. I hope it was everything you wanted out of this story, with just enough angst and fluff to fill your lovely hearts. Thank you for taking the time to read and if you like this story, you might like some of the others I have completed in my library. I'll also have a brand new, very light hearted conclusion to my Big Bang submission coming up in just a few days so stay tuned!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, your comments and kudos give me life and keep my muse at work day and night. :)


End file.
